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The Boys’ Big Game Series 


The Boss of the Bighorns 





























































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I sprang back hastily—Pago 22S 











The 

Boss of the Bighorns 

By 

ELLIOTT WHITNEY ' 

)J 

Illustrated by 
Garret Price, 



The Reilly & Lee Co. 

Chicago 


c *n i 



Printed in the United States of America 



Copyright , 1924 
by 

The Reilly & Lee Co. 


All Rights Reserved 



The Boss of the Bighorns 




CONTENTS 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I First Sight of the Boss. 9 

II The Clew of the Golden Nugget... 25 

III Thatch Rawlins Calls. 41 

IY In the Hands of the Enemy. 56 

V Trailing the Claim-Jumper. 75 

VI The First Man Fight. 92 

VII Boss Leads the Way. 107 

VIH A Dead Man’s Tale. 124 

IX The Midnight Burial. 144 

X Big Jim’s Dark Day. 166 

XI The Long Trail . 181 

XII A Strange Adventure. 193 

XIII The Battle of the Bucks. 206 

XIV A Fight in the Dark . 221 

XV Boss Saves His Name. 236 
























The Boss of the Bighorns 

CHAPTER I 

FIBST SIGHT OF THE BOSS 

I may some day see a stranger sight, but I 
doubt it. You may say this is because I am only 
nineteen years old and easy to excite, or that I 
am pretty green as a hunter. Neither theory 
fits. I had been in the mountains for forty days, 
hunting big game on at least thirty of them. I 
had been awed by deep gorges and chasms, tum¬ 
bling waterfalls and sheer precipices; I had taken 
my shot at a grizzly and lived through — with 
unshaken nerves — that dread moment when, 
wounded, he turned on me and my rifle jammed! 

So, I say, IVe had thrills a-plenty, yet I have 
never witnessed a stranger sight than that lone 
fight atop — but there, best let me give you the 
whole story and you can be the judge. 

9 


10 The Boss of the Big Horns 

Big Jim had gone to Tartel for supplies, leav¬ 
ing me to guard camp, forage for small game, 
or do what I pleased. We had been in this same 
spot for three days, as Big Jim was in the dumps 
and had lost all desire to go farther. About once 
each week a fit of despondency came upon Jim, 
nor would you blame him for this if you knew 
his errand in the Rockies. Big Jim Raily was 
the best hunter, keenest shot and surest trailer 
that I ever expect to see. Yet he had no great 
interest in any four-footed beast that roamed 
these mountains. His deep-set eyes were peer¬ 
ing for a more subtle trail than was ever made 
by bighorn sheep or slinking mountain lion. 

Jim had left for town at sun-up. After spend¬ 
ing the early morning hours in cleaning up equip¬ 
ment, I decided to take my rifle and cross over 
the big gully that lay directly before our camp. 
Although we had been here for three days and 
the gully looked none too forbidding, so far I 
had stayed on the camp side, chiefly because each 
new day brought a promise from Jim that “ to¬ 
morrow’’ he would take me across into the big¬ 
horn country. Then he would launch into a tale 


11 


First Sight of the Boss 

of bighorn hunting that set my blood to racing. 

Jim would not be back before sundown, even 
if he did not decide to stay all night in Tartel, 
and the three days’ stay in camp had just about 
exhausted all the possibilities of the low hills 
to eastward. Unless I crossed over to the hills 
beyond there was a dull day before me. A two 
hours’ climb, down and up, would take me to 
the crest of the low ridge opposite. What lay 
beyond that I did not know, and throwing my 
30-30 into the crook of my arm, I started on a 
trip of discovery. 

The route to the bottom of the gulch was easy 
enough, but the brook that dashed between steep 
banks and over black boulders was far deeper, 
wider, and colder than I had expected. For a 
hundred yards or so the opposite slope was very 
steep, but after that the going was easier. 

Well within the two hours I stood under the 
scrubby pines that topped the ridge, and these 
so shut off my view that I could not determine 
whether there was another ravine ahead, or 
whether this was the first stage on the slope of 
a mountain. 


12 The Boss of the Big Horns 

Taking my bearings carefully, I began to pick 
my way through the pines. For half an hour I 
pushed forward, bearing due west. The ground 
was rough, strewn with great boulders on which 
grew moss and stunted cedars. Occasionally 
there would be a low hill or a shallow basin, but 
for the most part there was no noticeable change 
of altitude. 

Then I came to the Big Drop. I named it that 
myself, standing there, awestruck, at the brink 
of a thousand foot chasm. It was as if a giant 
cheese knife had sliced away a prodigious help¬ 
ing of mouldy old Swiss. 

Surprised as I was at this freak of nature, 
I was still more astonished a moment later. As 
I looked to the south where the wall angled back 
toward me I saw that, steep as the cliff was, 
some living creature had been bold enough to 
scale it. Faint in the distance, but unmistakably 
a trail, a tiny thread-like path traced back and 
forth, but ever upward. 

Remembering Big Jim’s promise, and knowing 
something of the wild folk dwelling in the Rockies, 
I decided that such a difficult feat of mountain 


First Sight of the Boss 


13 


climbing could have been accomplished by but 
one creature — the bighorn sheep. With the 
thought came the desire to see the top of that 
trail. 

Staying as close to the edge as I dared, I began 
picking my way along. The footing was not 
always the best and my progress was slow. It 
was a loose, stony slope, and a slip meant a thou¬ 
sand foot drop. Added to my uncertainty was 
the feeling that at any moment I might come face 
to face with the maker of the trail. 

Then, as suddenly as the big moment flashes 
on the screen at the movie show, I ran plump 
into the scene that prompted the excited remark 
at the beginning of this story. 

In the first view there was nothing so very 
strange or startling about the peaceful sight that 
met my eyes. It was just a big sheep, the big¬ 
gest, finest buck I have ever seen. If you have 
ever seen a bighorn sheep in his own homeland, 
you will understand the thrill that went through 
me. Here at the top of the world, nothing above 
us but blue sky, a sheer thousand foot drop at 
our feet, a background of scrubby pine and mossy 


14 The Boss of the Big Horns 

boulders, only me and the bighorn — well, it gives 
a fellow a feeling! 

He was standing quietly enough, not having 
scented me as the wind was blowing full in my 
face, but he was not feeding. It was as if he had 
just been disturbed, and having satisfied him¬ 
self that all was well, was taking a quiet moment 
to think over the many false alarms of the past. 

Minute after minute he stood there, hardly 
seeming to breathe, so motionless that he seemed 
a part of the rock on which he stood. I began 
to wonder if his thoughts were not still on the 
present alarm rather than the ones he had lived 
safely through. 

I began looking about to see if my human eyes 
and ears could detect the disturbing element in 
the peaceful scene. Look as I might I failed to 
see anything unusual, unless it was a brown patch 
of leaves just back of a great boulder. A brown 
patch of leaves? Queer I should have called it 
that! What would a patch of leaves be doing 
in a pine forest? 

Did it move? My eyes were beginning to ache 
from the close watch. Perhaps that twitch was 


15 


First Sight of the Boss 

only in my tired lids, perhaps only imagination. 
To rest my eyes I looked away for a moment, 
then looked back. 

The brown patch was gone! 

As I have said, I had been hunting in the moun¬ 
tains for forty days, with the best teacher in 
the world as my constant companion. There had 
been many camp-fireside lessons, in story form, 
and nature’s book was open to me on many 
pages. There is one foe the bighorn dreads above 
all others — the mountain lion! 

That patch of brown which had so suddenly 
disappeared was a mountain lion. It was evi¬ 
dent now that the bighorn knew it. He 
had faced about and with head down stood 
waiting the attack. This puzzled me. Accord¬ 
ing to Big Jim the mountain sheep prefer to 
trust to their legs rather than their horns, know¬ 
ing that no mountain lion will dare the dizzy 
heights, the wide chasms, the breath-taking leaps 
of which the bighorn is master. 

Big Jim had said that the buck will show 
fight only when guarding his herd. Ah, per¬ 
haps that was the answer; he was guarding his 


16 The Boss of the Big Horns 

flock. I was sure of it an instant later. Rising 
suddenly on his hind legs, the buck came down 
with a jerk, three times in rapid succession, 
his hoofs clicking sharply on the rock. I heard 
a far sound of scurrying hoofs, then all was 
still. The buck once more lowered his head, 
his front guarded from easy attack by his won¬ 
derful horns. 

“ But where is the lion? ” I asked myself. 
“ He knows the buck is wise to him, and there ’s 
nothing to be gained now by caution. Why 
doesn’t he spring? ” 

A mountain lion’s mind isn’t like yours and 
mine, and for a full five minutes he kept me wait¬ 
ing there, standing still as a statue. Finally I 
decided that the big cat, keener-eyed than his 
quarry, had spied me in that unguarded moment 
when I had first caught sight of this mountain- 
top drama. I kept this thought only an instant; 
the big buck had wheeled. 

Standing on ground somewhat above the buck, 
I had the better view. Once more that patch of 
brown marred the scene. On the other side of 
the boulder now, just a half turn from where 


17 


First Sight of the Boss 

the big buck was facing. I had a half impulse 
to shout a warning, but it would have been too 
late. 

I saw an unmistakable quiver in the patch of 
brown; a brown marked with yellow and black, 
which, as I keened my eyes, took the form of a 
blocky head, eager forepaws and powerful chest. 
A second tremor like the pulse of chain lightning 
and then, without a sound, the great bulk rose 
in the air. 

The lion’s judgment of distance was good and 
the spring was perfectly timed. The buck whirled, 
but an instant too late. 

As I rushed forward, not thinking of the danger, 
I saw the red blood spurt out of the bighorn’s 
shoulder from a gash that ran all the way across 
the back. The buck went down, but as the two 
rolled off the rock he managed to pull free of 
the tearing claws and rending jaws and square 
himself for another attack. 

It was easy to see that the lion was far from 
disappointed. His cat-like strides as he circled 
his prey, the lashing tail, the low, purring growls 
and snarls, all told more plainly than words that 


18 The Boss of the Big Horns 

lie was well satisfied to have won first blood. He 
knew that it was only a matter of time until the 
buck, weakened by the loss of blood, would prove 
an easy victim of some cunning trick that would 
catch him off his guard. 

In the meantime he must keep moving. The 
lion’s mind was ciever enough to see the advantage 
in that. He would dash in, halting just short 
of the menacing horns and the stamping feet; 
both equally dangerous weapons. One moment 
he would charge in a mad circle, trying to force 
the buck into tying himself in a knot; then he 
would slink along, crouched low, making quick 
darts and springs to cut past the buck’s sword- 
point horns. More than one record he left of such 
half-hearted attempts, his claws ripping deep 
gashes on flank and shoulders. Each time the big¬ 
horn would shake his ponderous head, click his 
nimble feet and offer to charge, but the impulse 
was restrained. He was too wise to be tempted 
into such an unequal battle. His was a waiting 
game. The lion was playing the same game, and 
due to the success of his first attack he had the 
better of it. 


19 


First Sight of the Boss 

After that first wild impulse to interfere I had 
stopped behind a clump of small rocks, my rifle 
ready for any need, but firmly decided to let 
the battle go to the better fighter. Who was I 
to interfere with nature’s workings? 

The contest showed signs of developing into 
a fair imitation of one of thosei “ kid fights,’’ 
where “ one’s afraid and the other daresn’t ,f . 
The lion paused to lick at a spot where evidently 
some tick had found a home, and the buck relaxed 
his vigilance long enough to nurse the few wounds 
he could reach. Came a flash of tawny brown; 
then a snort of mingled fear and defiance from 
the buck. He had foiled the lion’s first trick. 

It was only the first. It was plain to see that 
the buck was growing weaker, and he met each 
successive attack with less and less vigor. If the 
fight was to last much longer it could end in only 
one way — mountain mutton for dinner. 

However, the lion, too, was growing weary of 
the fight. Once the buck had sunk the tip of a 
horn deep into his haunch, and once he had met 
a charge head-on, with at least some injury to 
the lion’s nervous system. They had been work- 


20 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

ing closer and closer to where I stood, the lion 
forcing the way, seemingly with some advantage 
in mind. In a flash I saw what it was. 

Four rocks stood in a group with a narrow pass 
between them. If the buck attempted to go 
through, his sides and rear would be exposed and 
he could not turn to protect himself. The lion, 
the less courageous but more cunning of the two, 
saw the possibilities of such a situation; the buck 
merely saw the rocks as a temporary shelter. 

At this point the scene changed with pulse¬ 
stirring rapidity, and you will perhaps agree 
with the statement made in the opening sentence 
of this story. I said: 4 ‘ I may some day see a 
stranger sight, but I doubt it.” 

The same instant in which the poor buck real¬ 
ized that he was trapped; the same second in 
which the lion crouched, his jaws dripping in 
anticipation of a long-expected feast, another ac¬ 
tor entered the scene. 

At first I thought it was the mate of the lion. 
There was the same tawny brown fur, the same 
panther-like slink of the body. But the head— 
there the resemblance ended. 


First Sight of the Boss 


21 


It might be a wolf; I was not sure. He was no 
wolf breed that I had ever seen; neither the gaunt 
gray timber wolf, the prairie wolf, nor his cous¬ 
in, the coyote. For all the hunting glare in his 
set eyes, there was a look there that I had never 
seen in any save a dog. 

A dog on top of this monutain! 

I had no time for speculation; things were 
happening too fast. 

The lion sprang. A squeal of mortal agony 
rent the air as he landed squarely on the haunch 
of the terrorized buck. The buck tried to turn, 
to throw this snapping, clawing creature from his 
back. In vain. The lion wanted lifeblood and he 
was not to be denied. 

Then it happened! 

A deep-throated growl, so full of hate that it 
put my hair on end, then a flash of dusky yellow- 
brown, followed by a thud as a heavy body landed. 

The events of the next few moments were too 
swift for me to relate. Almost too swift to see. 
I have witnessed many fights, but nothing to 
compare with this smashing, slashing, snapping, 
snarling combat of frenzied flesh and blood. 


22 The Boss of the Big Horris 

Beneath the two struggling bodies lay the poor 
buck, too far spent to offer combat in his own de¬ 
fense; too weak, indeed, to note whether the 
newcomer was friend or foe. Occasionally he 
made an attempt to struggle to his feet, and his 
horns inflicted more than one wound, but neither 
of the two contestants was favored. 

For several minutes the battle hung in the bal¬ 
ance. First one was uppermost then the other, 
though it was hard for me to see which was yel¬ 
low-brown and which was brown-yellow. 

Silently I stood there, wondering what it was 
all about. Were the two, the mountain lion and 
the dog — for I felt sure it was a dog — ancient 
enemies, or had the dog, too, been stalking the 
,sheep f 

All things must end, even a battle royal, and 
like most hard fights this one was finished almost 
as suddenly as it had begun. There was a mo¬ 
ment’s lull in the struggle; the two warriors 
sprang apart, glaring at each other, baring men¬ 
acing fangs. Then the lion crouched, his muscles 
twitching for the spring. As his body left the 
.ground the dog launched forward to meet the 


23 


First Sight of the Boss 

attack. They met in mid-air — a dull thud as their 
bodies collided and fell to the ground, locked to¬ 
gether. Neither stirred. 

I saw at once what had happened. True to 
his nature the dog had leaped underneath, full 
at the throat of his foe. The battle was over; 
only death would shake that grip. 

Satisfied at last that the mountain lion had 
stalked his last bighorn, the dog unlocked his jaws 
and dragged himself from beneath the heavy body. 
His mouth dripping bloody foam, he staggered 
dizzily a few steps, then squatted on his haunches 
to lick his wounds. 

“ Good dog! ” I exclaimed, coming to life and 
stepping forward from behind my rocks. 

My congratulations did not meet the welcome I 
had expected. Startled by the unexpected sound, 
the bighorn leaped to his feet and darted drunk- 
enly away, in an instant lost to sight among the 
rocks and trees. The dog’s attitude was less re¬ 
tiring. His lips curled back in a snarl that was 
distinctly unfriendly, his hair bristled along his 
scruff and his jaws chattered in a way that said, 
gun or no gun, he would not give an inch. 


24 The Boss of the Big Horns 

We eyed each other. I advanced my hand in 
friendly fashion and took a step toward him. No 
use. The jaws ceased their chatter and the snarl 
became a growl. 

“ All right, old fellow,” I said with a langh, 
“ have it your own way. If we can’t be friends, 
we’ll just try to be good strangers. And I’ll hold 
on to my gun.” 

I am afraid he did not understand my remarks, 
but he carried out a part of the program by pro¬ 
ceeding to make himself a stranger. Giving one 
sniff to the inert form of the mountain lion, and 
a backward, distrustful look at me, he trotted 
away. 

“ Now what in thunder do you know about 
that! ” I said to myself with a low whistle. 4 4 He’s 
nobody’s dog, I’ll gamble on that, but what in 
the world is he doing alone up here in these moun¬ 
tains? ” 


CHAPTER II 


THE CLEW OF THE GOLDEN NUGGET 

Reaching camp some two hours later, I thought 
at first that Big Jim had already returned; things 
did not seem to be where I had left them. But 
he was nowhere in sight and I concluded that I 
had had a visitor. Since nothing of any conse¬ 
quence had disappeared, I concluded that the few 
missing trinkets had engaged the attention of 
a family of pack rats that had been making us 
frequent visits. This question settled, I set about 
cooking a snack. After I had satisfied my hearty 
appetite I rearranged camp and settled down for 
a nap. 

I was aroused none too gently, but even before 
I was awake I realized it was Big Jim. 

“ So this is what I find when I return home 
unexpectedly, Tod Vance! Thought I told you 
I’d like some broiled black bass with drawn but¬ 
ter dressing for dinner, served hot as soon as 
I arrived! ” 


25 


26 The Boss of the Big Horns 

“ You should have wired me and made reser¬ 
vations,” I answered, wriggling out of his strong 
hand and jumping to my feet. “ Did you bring 
that pink ice cream I told you to get in town? 
You did not,” I asserted sternly, “ and for that 
you shall eat bacon, beans and black tea for sup¬ 
per — if you cook it yourself. Thank you, I have 
already dined.” 

“ Good! ” exclaimed Jim jovially. “ Glad to 
hear it. I brought frankfurters and a mess of 
potatoes, and I was afraid there wouldn’t be 
enough to go around.” 

“ Now that I think of it,” I remarked easily, 
“ it must have been yesterday that I ate that 
meal.” 

“ All right, Tod, hop to it then and skin these 
’taters. We’ll eat the franks with the hide on.” 

“ Let’s roast ’em over the fire,” I suggested. 
“ They’re great that way.” 

The potatoes, baked in the ashes, were a wel¬ 
come treat, for we had not had any for weeks. 
All through the simple meal I caught Jim look¬ 
ing at me in the curious way he had when he was 
turning things over in his mind — much as if he 


27 


The Clew of the Golden Nugget 

were measuring me up, inside and out. A dozen 
times I had it on the tip of my tongue to tell 
him about my excursion across the gulch and my 
curious adventure there, but something in Jim’s 
look made me hold back. Finally, as the last 
frankfurter disappeared and the last flaky bit of 
baked potato was licked from fingers none too 
clean, he began: 

“ How tall are you, Tod! ” 
i ‘ Five-ten; one sixty-seven in my socks the day 
after washday.’’ 

“ Almost a man. And how old might you be, 
if you’ll pardon an old man’s curiosity! ” 

“ Nineteen next month.” 

“ Three nineteens is fifty-seven. Fifteen years 
more and I’ll be three times as old as you are.” 

“ Nix! ” I exclaimed, making a rapid calcula¬ 
tion. “Two years more and I’ll be just half your 
age.” 

“ How quick he are! ” chuckled Jim. “ Now 
that you know my age, let me ask you one more 
question: How long since you left home! ” 

“ Since home left me, you mean. I’ve been an 
orphan since I was six, living with my Aunt Jen. 


28 The Boss of the Big Horns 

She married four years ago and her husband and 
I weren’t made to live under the same roof. A 
fine fellow, too, and nice as pie to Aunt Jen, but 
our minds simply didn’t track. Mostly my fault, 
I guess. When I wanted to play baseball and 
football and basket ball, he thought I ought to 
be studying or doing chores. I kind of thought 
the dose ought to be mixed — a little play and 
a little work. One day we had it out. He thought 
I was < sassy ’. Guess maybe I was, but I really 
didn’t mean it that way. Then he wanted to 
thrash me — got mad when I told him he’d have 
to lick me first. We were good friends again next 
day, but I’d had a chance to think things over 
all by my lone and that night I told Aunt Jen 
that in the future I’d fight my own battles. 

“ I stayed at home for nearly six months after 
that, but I got a job for after school and even¬ 
ings and Saturdays, and I paid board. When 
I’d saved up a hundred, and school was out, I got 
a real job. After a few years of that you came 
along— ” 

“ And here we are, high and dry in the Rockies, 
and you wondering all the time what we ’re here 


29 


The Clew of the Golden Nugget 

for — what you are here for, at any rate.” 

“ I must admit I have rather won— ” 

“ Young man, your sole reason for being here 
is to keep me from going batty with loneliness.” 

“ Why didn’t you get yourself a parrot or a 
phonograph? It would have been cheaper.” 

“ A phonograph can’t work nor could it have 
pulled the trigger when that old grizzly had 
me backed up against the edge of a cliff! ” 

“ Forget it,” I suggested with a laugh. “ I had 
buck fever so bad I didn’t know which was you 
and which the bear. So I just shut my eyes and 
shot, figuring you’d dodge if I picked the wrong 
one.” 

“ Awful glad the bear didn’t dodge. Have you 
ever wondered why I was here! ” 

“ Well, yes, at times. I knew all along that 
you weren’t just hunting; not for game, at least. 
But what you were hunting for — well, that 
wasn’t any of my business.” 

“ Tod Yance, you have one quality that I ad¬ 
mire— you keep a close mouth. You remind me 
of a sentence I once read somewhere or other, 
on a postcard I reckon it was: ‘ A simple, silent, 


30 


The Boss of the Big Horns 


selfless man is worth a world of tonguesters. ’ 
That’s the one big reason I picked on you to 
gang along with me. I hate a jabberwock. So 
many people talk without saying anything.” 

“ Then you’d have loved a boy they tell about 
back home,” I said, laughing. “ Dumb, he was, 
from birth. Never spoke a syllable. Bright 
enough, too, and a great worker. Folks were 
farmers, so it didn’t make much difference 
whether he could talk or not. One day he and 
his father were out in the timber cutting poles. 
They discovered a bear cub, lost from its mother 
and whimpering like a baby. Father decided to 
put it in the wagon and take it along home — 
they were about ready to start. Just then the 
mother bear missed her cub and came charging 
through the brush. She was almost upon the 
father, stumbling along with his struggling load, 
and he did not hear her. 

“‘Father! Father!’ shouted the dumb boy. 
‘ The mother bear is right behind you! ’ 

“ The father was so astonished to hear his 
son speak that he dropped the cub, and mother 
and cub quickly disappeared in the woods. 


31 


The Clew of the Golden Nugget 

44 4 Son, son,’ exclaimed the happy parent, 4 you 
can talk! But why have you not spoken before ? ’ 

4 4 4 Nothing to say/ replied the dummy.” 

44 Humph,” said Jim. 44 Seems to me I heard 
that story back home in England about a Scotch 
boy.” 

44 Back home in England! ” I exclaimed, for¬ 
getting that Jim liked me because I asked no 
questions. 

44 Yes, England. Thought I was a Yankee, did 
you! Almost am. Haven’t seen England in ten 
years and don’t expect to again. This country's 
good enough for me — after I find what I’m look¬ 
ing for. Oh, I’ll tell you all about it,” as he saw 
the question that fairly popped out of my eyes. 

44 I’m a Britisher, or was. I enlisted from 
Canada during the big scrap and went all through 
without a scratch. One of the few, I can tell you. 
The rest of my time for the past ten years has 
been spent here in the West, hunting. No, not 
bunting for game, though I’ve seen my share of 
that, too. Hunting a man. My brother — 
younger brother, Tom. 

44 You see, Tom and I had always been chums 


32 The Boss of the Big Horns 

when we were youngsters. I was four years the 
older, hut Tom grew up early — bigger than I 
was after he was fifteen. A bit wild, Tom, but 
square as a die and a good sport. Took his 
medicine like a man and paid his way in every 
pinch. But wild, yes, wild as they make ’em. 
Partly my fault, because I indulged him; cov¬ 
ered up his scrapes after he’d got out of them 
by himself. There wasn’t anything I wouldn’t 
have done for him. 

“ Nothing one-sided about it, either. I won’t 
soon forget that day at Aldersly when he paid 
with a broken leg for the risk that should have 
been mine. Eotten timbers caved in in an old 
mine we were exploring. He was nineteen then, 
the year before he put on his country’s uniform. 
India service, five years of it. Earned promo¬ 
tion and got it, then lost it through a wild prank 
that pretty near started a native war. 

‘‘ Came back home then, same old Tom, and 
we went in business together. Four years of 
that, and then we fell in love with the same 
girl. Dear old sentimental Tommy! Got the 
notion that the girl cared for me — so he cleared 


33 


The Clew of the Golden Nugget 

out to give me a full chance at winning her! 

“ Maybe I had the idea that I was the lucky 
fellow, too, but it was just the other way around. 
She’s still hoping that Tom will come back. 
He wrote me regularly up to the close of the 
war but he never stayed long enough in one 
place to get any of my letters. I wrote him 
often enough, goodness knows, but the letters all 
came back. 

“ Just before the war I came to the States 
to trail him, and as soon as I took off the uni¬ 
form I was at it again. I’m counted a good 
hunter, but I have been a miserable failure at 
the only game I ever really wanted to run down. 
Just before I met up with you I struck the 
freshest trail I have ever found, and it was 
six months old. We’ve been criss-crossing this 
neck of the woods, you and I, for over a month 
r^w, and not a sign did I find till to-day.’’ 

“Gee whizz!” I exclaimed. “Where? 
Tartel ? ” 

“Not exactly. I don’t really know that it’s a 
clew at all. Probably not, but it’s the closest 
I’ve come to one in such a long while that I’ve 


34 The Boss of the Big Horns 

tried to make myself believe that it’s a real 
one.’’ 

“ Where’d you find it, if not at Tartel? ” 

“ Here in the hills. Ever hear of a claim¬ 
jumping antelope by the name of Rawlins — 
Thatch Rawlins? Hardly thought so. Been 
everything, I guess; cattle rustler, whiskey run¬ 
ner, bootlegger, card sharp and miner. A miner 
when his other jobs got too hot for him. 1 
pulled him out of a tight hole once, for which 
I ought to be strung up by the thumbs, but 
the old sinner’s got a soft spot for me. 

“He’s out prospecting again; shot a man up 
at Mineral City and had to clear out. This 
time it’s really different. He’s prospecting for 
a mine that’s already located. No, I’m not try¬ 
ing to talk in riddles. I’ll explain. 

“ Once in a while even a bad man does a 
good deed. According to Thatch’s story he 
got into this trouble at Mineral City over a 
chap called Shorty Winters. Shorty is quite a 
character. Touched, you know; simple in way, 
but shrewd enough to get along. Folks take 
a special delight in making game of the poor old 


35 


The Clew of the Golden Nugget 

duffer, and they keep him imagining he’s in 
all sorts of trouble. They’ll tell him that he’s 
hurt somebody’s feelings — some bad man of the 
town — and that he’s looking for Shorty and 
will shoot to kill on sight. Then Shorty legs it 
home fast as he can go and gets out an old horse- 
pistol that’s as long as your arm. Then the 
whole town has a laugh. 

“ The gun hasn’t been fired in twenty years, 
so far as anybody knows. The town joker of¬ 
fered Shorty a dollar if he’d shoot the old 
cannon. Shorty said he would do it for the 
dollar, and then gave it back with another dollar 
to boot if the joker’d stand in front of the 
muzzle when he pulled the trigger. 

“ I’m telling you all this so you’ll know just 
how to take the story that Rawlins told me. Ac¬ 
cording to Rawlins, here it is: 

“ Somebody started the yarn that Shorty was 
a miser and had a lot of money hidden away. 
Shorty seemed to take great pride in his new 
title and reputation. Then one night, to get 
all the juice out of the joke, four miners, just 
in and aching for fun, put masks over their faces 


36 The Boss of the Big Horns 

and went to Shorty’s cabin where they pretended 
to hold him up. Half the town was outside the 
cabin to be in on the sport. 

“ It got too realistic when one of the men, a 
bit the worse for liquor, took a red-hot poker 
and slapped it sizzling on Shorty’s bare arm. 
i That/ said Rawlins, ‘ was when I took a hand. 
The miner drawed on me but I was too quick 
fer him. Howsomever, he had the crowd with 
him an’ I figgered it was safer to light out o’ 
town. Which I done/ 

“ He must have gone in a hurry, because he 
left with the clothes on his back and nothing 
else. Somehow Shorty found where he was hid¬ 
ing out and brought Rawlins his belongings, 
which wasn’t such a much, judging by what I 
saw about two hours ago. But Shorty came out 
to him, that’s the big point, and they sat around 
the fire and chinned awhile. 

“ Here’s the way Thatch told it: 

“ i We was settin’ thar an’ not sayin’ much o* 
nothin’ an’ all of a suddent Shorty says, says he, 
“ Thatch, you been a good friend to me, and good 
friends alius gits paid back.’” 


The Clew of the Golden Nugget 37 

“ 1 “ Chuck it, Shorty, I never did like that big 
stiff nohow,” says I.’ ” 

“ ‘ “ you don’t fool me none,” says Shorty, 
1 1 He’d a plugged you shore ef you hadn’t heat 
him on the draw. I wuz a good friend to a feller 
onct, an’ look what he gi’n me.’ ” 

“ i An’ the poor locoed nut pulls a nugget out 
o’ his pocket as big as a hen’s egg. “ Where in 
thunder did you git that, and who wuz he any¬ 
how? ” I asks him. 

“ * Shorty grins silly, like he does when he’s a 
lot smarter than you think, and sez, “ He told 
me, alright. I know his name, an’ where his mine 
is an’ everything. An’ it aint fur off, neither.’ ” 
“ * An’ then he tells me a long story about 
how some locoed miner what has a touch o’ 
camp fever or a broken leg, I couldn’t make out 
just which or both, come to his shack to be took 
in an’ saved from the wolves or the cold or just 
plain starvation. You know how ramblin’ Shorty 
talks when he gets goin\ Anyhow, the poor 
galoot was clean out o’ his head an’ tol’ all his 
secrets, bein’ just then about as crazy as poor 
Shorty is mostly. 


38 


The Boss of the Big Horns 


“ ‘ And after tellin’ all about a bone-nanzy 
mine he’s prospected, when his fever’s at its 
worst and he’s just a ravin’ loony, he slips 
away while Shorty’s snoozin’ — slips out at 
night when it’s way below zero an’ then some. 

“ * After he’s gone Shorty finds a chart that 
shows where the mine’s located, and he’d give 
up that chart, to me or anybody else, the same 
time he gives up his right eye.’ ” 

“ That,” concluded Jim, “ was where Rawlins 
told his first lie, because he’d never go out look¬ 
ing for that mine without knowing exactly where 
it was. Thatch is different from the drunken 
miner that he shot, in just one way — he wouldn’t 
use a red-hot poker unless he was after some¬ 
thing. ’ ’ 

“ Just where do you see any clew in all this? ” 
I asked. 

6i It’s what I found out afterwards, by a few 
careless questions. If Shorty’s description is 
worth anything, that ’locoed miner was my 
brother Tom. Had a scar on his upper arm, he 
said, and wore a peculiar shaped ring. Of course 
Shorty’s not all there, as far as that goes, and 


39 


The Clew of the Golden Nugget 

Rawlins is not to be trusted farther’n you can 
throw a locomotive by the drawbar. On the 
other hand, neither one could have any object in 
stringing me, because I managed not to show 
any special interest in the story. As far as 
the story goes, Rawlins believes there’s some¬ 
thing in it because he’s out here running it 
down . 9 9 

“ It does sound promising,” I admitted, “ but 
you never can tell. You didn’t talk to Shorty 
himself — ” 

“ No,” interrupted Jim explosively, “ but I’m 
going to. By cutting across to Silver Spring 
I can get a train to a point where ten miles by 
stage will take me to Mineral City. Here I’ll 
look up Shorty, casual like, and try to get some 
more information out of the old coot. Mineral 
City is a county seat and I aim to look up the 
records and see if anyone by the name of Tom 
Raily has filed on a claim. I figger Tom would 
be too wise to do much mining without filing on 
his claim if ’twas worth filing. I have wasted 
enough time talking to you, you jabberwock. 
Think you can take care of the camp while I’m 


40 The Boss of the Big Horns 

gone? Take me two days and the next night to 
make it, I expect.’’ 

“I’ll try to,” I answered, “ if you’ll tell me 
what time to put the beans to soak, when to wind 
the clock and where to hang the dishrag between 
usings. Going to take a bite with you? ” 

“ Nope. I’ll be at Silver Spring by moon- 
rise to-night, and I’ll have breakfast in Mineral 
City. There’s just one thing for you to look 
out for — ” he paused as if doubtful whether 
to utter the warning. 

“ Don’t tell me if you think it’ll scare me.” 

“ I wish I could scare you into being careful. 
The one thing is — Thatch Rawlins. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER III 


THATCH RAWLINS CALLS 

After Big Jim was gone I realized that I had 
failed to ask two important questions. Where 
had he met Rawlins, and which way was he 
headed? Probably in my direction, I reasoned, 
or Jim would hardly have thought it worth 
while to warn me against Thatch. 

I walked over to the edge of the little high¬ 
land plain in the center of which our camp was 
pitched, and watched Jim out of sight in the 
gullies that twisted and turned ever lower to 
the southward. Then I went back and sitting 
down on a log, watched the sun climb behind the 
mountains. Our camp was peculiar in that 
respect; the sun did not go down, but moved out 
of sight sideways, at the very last appearing 
to rise a little along the slope of the western 
ridge. 

I had not long to enjoy the beautiful sight. 

41 


42 The Boss of the Big Horns 

I had not been sitting there over ten minutes 
when I heard a hearty 44 Hello! ” from the top 
of the trail which Jim had just taken on his way 
down. 

44 Must have passed Jim on the way,” I said 
to myself, at the same time answering the hail. 

44 Light, stranger, and rest your horse,” I 
invited. 

44 Don’t keer if I do,” heartily. 44 It’s some 
climb up here. Quite some camp you have. All 
by your lone? ” 

44 I’m not alone,” I hastened to say, remem¬ 
bering the thought I had had a moment before 
and realizing that the stranger did not want me 
to know he had passed Jim. 

The stranger did not give me much time for 
thought, and his tongue rattled on: 

44 Got a buddy, eh? It’s best, up here in the 
hills. Too many things can happen to a feller 
when he can’t get help. I see you’ve had yer 
chuck. Care if I roast a young squirrel over yer 
coals ? Maybe you could coax up enough appetite 
to eat a saddle with me. Got a drap o’ coffee 
left, I see. Well, that’ll save me unpackin’ my 


Thatch Rawlins Calls 43 

tin. I’ll jist swing off my pack an’ let the 
horse pick ’round.” 

“ Hunting? ” I asked innocently. 

“ Partly. Got a party ’bout forty miles far¬ 
ther west that I’m goin’ to guide. Greenhorns 
from the city. I expect to git many’s the good 
laugh out o’ them, besides good pay fer my 
time. Jack Lewis don’t work fer fun.” 

“ My name’s Tod Vance, Mr. Lewis—” 

“Mister Lewis! Sufferin’ snakes! Jack, 
buddy, Jack, if we’re goin’ to be friends. I 
ain’t hearn the last part o’ my name for so long 
I’ve almost fergot it’s Raw — Lewis,” he 
amended hastily, eying me sharply to see if the 
slip had made any impression. 

I was not to be trapped. “ Rawlewis,” I re¬ 
marked casually. “ It’s an unusual name.” 

“ Just Lewis,” he said easily. “ The ‘ Raw ’ 
part is my middle name — short for Rollins.” 

“ He’s clever,” I remarked to myself. “ He 
can invent lies faster than a dog can trot.” Then, 
just for the fun of seeing how far the old scamp 
would go, I asked: 

“ Maybe you know my pal; he’s been around 


44 The Boss of the Big Horns 

these parts right smart — Jim Kaily? ” 

“ Raily— Raily,” shaking his head thought¬ 
fully. “ The name does sound sort o’ familiar. 
Must ’a’ heard o’ him, all right, though I don’t 
rickolect runnin’ into him. How old a man 
would you say he was? ” 

“ Past forty, a pretty solid chunk of a man. 
A full inch taller than I am and twenty pounds 
heavier. Always wears a brown woolen shirt, 
open at the neck, and never has his sleeves down. 
Never saw him with a coat on or without a tie.” 

“ Yer tally ’minds me of the bills they posted 
fer the man wanted fer stealin’ Blind Pete’s 
mare. Had a toe missin’ on his right foot. 
Thousand dollars reward, dead or alive. He’s 
quick on the draw, so shoot first and ask ques¬ 
tions afterward. Goin’ barefoot was healthy in 
them parts fer a considerable time.” 

“ Jim’s gone to town,” I volunteered. 

“ Tartel? ” he asked casually. 

“ No, Silver Spring.” This was at least half- 
true, since he would pass through Silver Spring 
on his way to Mineral City. 

“ Silver Spring? What in thunder he want to 


Thatch Rawlins Calls 45 

go to Silver Spring fer? It’s half ag’in as fur, 
an’ the trail’s all up an’ down.” 

44 I think he wanted to mail a letter,” I sug¬ 
gested. 44 There’s no railorad at Tartel, and he 
could just make it to the train at Silver Spring. 
The letter was awfully important, he said.” 

44 Huh! ” grunted Rawlins, and his tone 
sounded somewhat uneasy to me. 44 Well, it’s 
gittin’ dark fast. Reckon I’ll shake out a blanket 
and roll in. IVe got to be a-goin’ by sun-up 
cause my party ain’t goin’ to wait long on me 
an’ I’m a day late now. Been any fu’ther west 
into the mountains than here? ” 

44 No — far as I’ve gone. Oh, I crossed the 
gully yonder to-day, but that’s all.” 

44 Has yore pardner been any fu’ther.” 

44 Not this trip. Why, is there good hunting? ” 
44 Not ’less you go t’other side the hills, and 
that’s a hard stretch o’goin’. If I was you 
I’d swing south. Movin’ on to-morrow? ” 

44 No, not till Jim gets back.” 

The minute it was out I realized what I had 
said. It was too dark now to see Rawlins’ 
eyes, and I could not tell whether he had noted 


46 


The Boss of the Big Borns 

my slip or not. He was silent for a long time 
and then his remark was harmless enough. 

“ Ever do any prospectin’? ” 

“ Wouldn’t know pay dirt from potato peel¬ 
ings.” 

‘ 4 I’ve mined some. Your pardner ever say 
anything about diggin’? Strikes me I used to 
know a creek panner by the name of Raily. 
Can’t say as his name was Jim, though.” 

“ No, I don’t know that he ever did; never 
has told me about it, at least.” 

That was all. The camp was quiet for the next 
few minutes, until a hearty roar from the 
blankets on the other side of the fire told me 
that Rawlins was asleep and snoring with the 
muffler wide open. After debating the matter 
a moment I decided that it would be safe enough 
for me to go to sleep. Just before I dozed off 
I came to another conclusion. Big Jim had told 
me to look out for Rawlins. I would do just 
that. And the best way to do it was to stay as 
close to Rawlins as possible. I would follow his 
trail. 

The next thing I knew it was morning, and 


Thatch Rawlins Calls 


47 


broad daylight at that. I had slept a full hour 
beyond my usual time. The reason for this was 
clear enough. A corner of my blanket had 
fallen across my face and screened me from the 
wakening rays of the sun. 

“ It might have just dropped there,” I said 
half aloud as I saw that my visitor had already 
departed. “ It might, but I doubt it. Our clever 
friend probably wanted to be sure that I got my 
beauty sleep, and he his get-away. Well, we’ll 
soon see if Big Jim’s lessons in trailing have 
been worth anything. A bite to eat and then 
we’ll be off.” 

A few slices of bacon, water dough fried in 
the bacon grease, a cup of black coffee, and I 
was ready to hit the trail. I set off, my rifle 
over my shoulder. As I reached the place where 
the hoofmarks led into the ravine I happened 
to think of Big Jim and his return to an un¬ 
guarded camp. “ Better leave a note,” I de¬ 
cided. So I hastily returned and scribbled the 
following note: 

“ Dear Jim: Bawlins was here and told such 
a pack of lies that I felt I ought to follow him. 


48 The Boss of the Big Horm 

He tumbled to the fact that you were going to 
Mineral City. You must have passed him soon 
after leaving camp, because he was here within 
a few minutes. I think he suspects that you 
went there on account of the mine. At any rate 
Pm going to try to trail him and find out where 
the mine is located. You ought to be able to 
follow me without any trouble, as I’ll leave plenty 
of tracks.’’ 

“ The Jabberwock.” 

I laid this under the coffee pot, that being 
the first place Jim would come, and once more 
I took up the trail. It led, plain as the nose on 
a man’s face, straight down the slope, but once 
at the bed of the stream it was not so easy to 
follow. I felt sure that Rawlins had crossed 
to the other side, so at the first easy place I 
plunged in and splashed across. I followed the 
bank downstream for a hundred yards, because 
I knew he could never have forced his horse 
against that current. 

At last I was rewarded. On the top of a flat 
rock there was still a little pool of water, sure 
sign that he had come out there. I had to go 


Thatch Rawlins Calls 


49 


up the slope some distance before I found fur¬ 
ther trace, as the side of the ravine here was 
almost bare rock. A patch of moss yielded the 
faint mark of a hoof, and a little farther on 
there were two prints close enough together 
to give me his direction. 

From then on I made better time; in fact I 
felt sure I was traveling as fast as Rawlins, for 
this was poor country for a horse and many 
places that I could clamber over forced his 
mount to go around. Swinging southward, the 
trail led toward the crest of the ridge. Whether 
Rawlins knew of my cliff or not, he was going 
to avoid it, though it was possible he would hit 
even worse climbing by his route. 

He showed no great desire to quit the ridge 
and mile after mile the hoofprints led along 
until the sun was almost straight overhead and 
I was beginning to feel the heat. Likewise my 
stomach was beginning to protest a little, so I 
decided to “ eat a rest,” as Jim used to call it. 

I was a bit dubious about building a fire, but 
Jim had instructed me thoroughly in the art of 
fire building, and as there were plenty of dry 


50 The Boss of the Big Horns 

sticks to be had, I flattered myself that I would 
be able to build a smokeless blaze and broil a 
few strips of bacon without anyone a hundred 
feet away being the wiser. That and a little 
bread served me for dinner. After I had washed 
it down with a few deep gulps of crystal-clear 
water from a spring that gurgled out from under 
a big rock, I decided to rest for half an hour. 
The trail had been growing fresher and fresher 
and I knew that I had been gaining on Rawlins. 

Refreshed by my short rest, I took up the 
trail with renewed vigor, so much so that just 
before sunset, as I rounded the mouth of a steep¬ 
sided ravine and swung out onto the base of 
a grassy slope, I saw a horse and rider just 
dipping out of view on the upper edge. 

“ I’ll stop here till dark,” I decided. “ There’s 
probably a belt of timber beyond this grassy slope 
and he’ll camp for the night just inside its 
shelter. Back in the ravine I can chance a shot 
with one of my shorts and maybe pop over a 
bite of fresh meat for supper. Then when it’s 
good and dark I’ll see if I can slip up a little 
nearer to my friend, Mr. Jack Raw-Lewis.” 


Thatch Rawlins Calls 


51 


It was already growing dark in the shadows 
of the ravine and it was fortunate for me that 
the chattering of a squirrel soon put an end to 
my hurried hunt. It was an easy shot, and he 
came tumbling down almost at my feet. He was 
young and fat, so I felt well satisfied with my 
hunt. 

Browned over the coals of a tiny fire, it was 
a dainty morsel, especially to an appetite sharp¬ 
ened by mountain air and a hard day in the 
open. I saved a few bits for breakfast, because 
it was hardly likely that I would dare risk a 
fire at a time when the smoke might betray me. 

“ He’ll go hard to-morrow,” I concluded, “ be¬ 
cause in all probability he figures to reach the 
place by dark, and he hasn’t made many miles 
forward to-day, having to follow the ravines 
so much. We’ll be getting into smoother coun¬ 
try and his horse can set a pace I’ll have a 
hard time matching unless we get an even 
start.” 

With that I picked up my scanty equipment, 
clambered over the rocks at the mouth of the 
ravine and squatted down to wait until the stars 


52 The Boss of the Big Horns 

would come out and I could set my course 
by their light. One by one they twinkled out 
as the rosy light of the sun faded from the sky. 
A cleft in the ridge had marked the spot where 
I had last seen Rawlins; the Big Dipper hung 
low in the sky. The last star in the handle was 
my guide. 

Despite the brightness of the stars it was a 
dark night, and without my guide point, trailing 
would have been impossible. In fact, I forgot 
all about the trail, trusting that when the crest 
of the ridge was reached there would be the 
flicker of a camp fire to help me along. Failing 
that, I would have to await the morning. 

Two good hours I toiled upward, cheered by 
the hope that luck would be with me as to the 
camp fire. I was not so fortunate. The ridge 
proved to be a bare, stony slope, dipping sharply 
to the northwest and carrying no sign of any 
shelter. Looming bulkily out of the darkness 
was the next ridge, crowned with a forest of 
spruce that cast a deeper black than sky or the 
slope below. I had no doubt that somewhere 
within its shadows rested my quarry. 


Thatch Rawlins Calls 


53 


I pondered the advisability of risking the climb 
down and up again in the dark. “ It would take 
me an hour at least,’ ’ I argued, 44 maybe two. By 
that time his fire would have died down to coals 
and ashes, and I couldn’t see it a dozen feet 
away. Besides, I don’t know that he crossed 
the cut here. He might have followed the ridge 
on up for another mile or so. If I cross, it 
means a long scout up and down in the morning, 
with a chance that I’ve missed him entirely; 
while if I stay here I’ll have a fine chance of 
seeing his breakfast smoke/’ 

This reasoning seemed logical, but despite this 
I finally decided to take the chance and cross 
over at once. It was not so easy after the first 
quarter mile. The slopes were gradual enough, 
but there were outcroppings of rock that proved 
mighty difficult in the dark. When I was half 
way down I began to repent having started. I 
had no guide for direction save instinct, the 
Dipper being hidden behind the opposite ridge, 
and the way was so broken that half the time I 
was not sure whether I was going uphill or 
down. Twice I found myself heading straight 


54 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

into the base of a cliff. It was with great relief 
that I felt my feet plunge into a pool of water, 
knowing that I had reached the bottom of the 
slope. I plunged my face gratefully into its 
cool depths, satisfied with my efforts. My satis¬ 
faction was short-lived. A sudden thought struck 
me: What would a man do at the end of a 
hard day, with another long day before him, if 
he came to a stream of water? Would he pass 
on or would he make camp there so his horse 
could drink his fill before taking up the hard 
grind again in the morning? 

That might depend, of course, upon what lay 
at the top of the next slope. I did not know; 
perhaps Rawlins did. Daylight would come late 
down here, much later than on top the ridge, 
and with me down below and Rawlins above — 
well, it meant an hour’s start on me, not count¬ 
ing the time it would take for the climb and 
picking up the trail again. 

When I had been above, everything seemed to 
argue against my starting, now that I was be¬ 
low, everything seemed to tell me to go on — 
everything but my tired muscles. With a sigh 


Thatch Rawlins Calls 


55 


I waded across the tiny stream, shallow here 
where a rocky pocket had widened the stream 
to a quiet pooL With another sigh I set my¬ 
self to start up the slope. With the first sloshy 
step I came to an abrupt halt. 

“ I say, Vance,’’ came a quiet voice from the 
darkness, “ drop your pack and step this way. 
Yes, and drop your gun, too. I’ve got a bead 
on you. That’s the ticket. Now, if you don’t 
mind, perhaps you’ll explain why you’ve been 
follering me all day, and what fer that swell 
pardner of youm lit out so sudden to Mineral 
City! ” 


CHAPTER IV 


IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY 

My first feeling was one of humiliation. To 
think that I had been so proud of my trailing 
and had built so high on what I would tell Big 
Jim on his return. Now here I was, caught! 
Not only that, but I had a strong feeling that 
Rawlins had known all along that I had been 
following him. His next words told me that 
this was true. 

“ Thought you was playin’ me fer a greenie, 
eh? Me jest tollin’ you on till I got yuh so fur 
away from camp thet you’d be good an’ lost! 
What kind o’ gun do you carry on yer hip? ” 

He “ fanned ” me, as they say out there, find¬ 
ing nothing but my big pocket knife. “ Huh,” 
he grunted. “ Harmless as a two-year-old, an’ 
’bout as smart. You’ll have to git up ’arlier in 
the mornin’ to catch Thatch Rawlins. Yes, I’m 
Thatch Rawlins, as you well know, ye little 
snoop! ” 


56 


57 


In the Hands of the Enemy 

“ Maybe if you hadn't lied to me I wouldn't 
have snooped," I returned. I had been thinking 
while he was talking and had decided on the 
line I would take. “ Big Jim told me about 
meeting you, so I knew you were Rawlins, and 
I figured you wouldn't have lied to me about 
that unless you had something to hide. So, Jim 
being away, I decided to follow you and find 
out what that something was." 

“ That don't pull the wool none over my eyes 
neither, Bud. Ef Big Jim tol' you who I was he 
tol' you what I was here fur. Ef you hadn’t 
acted so dum innercent I mightn't 'a' been so 
suspicious. So Big Jim went to Mineral City 
to see ef that claim had been recorded, an' lef' 
you to foiler me up an' see whar it's located 
so you could slip in on me an' grab it off. Well, 
young feller, ef you find it after I git through 
with you, yore a good-un, that's all." 

“ All right," I laughed. “ Some people are 
so wise they make fools of themselves. You've 
told me more in two minutes than I've found 
out in a whole day of following you. So that 
was why you sneaked away so carefully? " 


58 The Boss of the Big Horns 

“ Young feller, ef you ever take to playin' 
poker I'd like you fer a pardner. Not that 
there's much use in bluffin' a four-card flush after 
yore hand's been called. I've got you dead to 
rights and you might as well lay down your 
cards an' pass over the chips." 

“ Oh, all right," I answered with pretended 
disgust. “ Have it your own way." 

“ I expect to. Maybe you'll he satisfied now 
to beat it back to yore dude camp. How 'bout it? 
Ef I turn you loose will you go on back an' 
keep yore fool nose in yore own bus'ness? " 

“ Reckon I'll have to." 

“ Reckon you would ef I'd chance you, which 
I don't aim to do. That baby face o' yourn 
hain't to be trusted any more'n a rattlesnake 
what's had its rattles shot off. I'll just cinch 
you up till momin' and then we'll see what 
we'll see." 

This he proceeded to do, the cinching being 
accomplished with a good deal of unnecessary 
roughness. He was an expert in the art of 
roping a man, and his knots were a marvel of 
simplicity and effectiveness. When you loosened 


59 


In the Hands of the Enemy 

one you tightened another. I found this out 
a very few minutes after his snoring told me 
that he had gone to sleep. 

I soon followed suit; no use losing sleep over 
a useless struggle. In the morning — well, as 
Eawlins had said, we would see what we would 
see. 

Long before daylight my captor was astir. He 
made coffee, flapjacks and fried bacon. He 
untied my hands so I could eat and as soon 
as the meal was over, tied them up again and 
released my feet. 

“ There ,’’ he said grimly. “ Any time you 
want to run off, go to it. You’ll starve to death 
long afore you find yore camp. Which direction 
does it lay, would you say? ” 

I pointed just opposite to where I really 
thought. 

“ Dura! 99 said Eawlins. 

I was startled. His exclamation had sounded 
so genuine that I felt sure I had pointed straight 
toward camp, and if that was true, then I was 
completely turned around. I soon had cause 
for further alarm. 


60 


The Boss of the Big Horns 


“ I’ll soon take ye, young feller, to whar you 
won’t know east from straight-up. Start hikin’.” 

At the start Rawlins walked, for his horse 
seemed none too certain of his footing. We first 
climbed straight up the side of the ravine, then 
followed the ridge for better than two miles 
to a place where it forked. We followed the left- 
hand fork and began to edge off the ridge down 
what I took to be the northern slope. From 
then on it was a case of plunge and scramble, 
climb and slide, until my head was in a whirl 
from trying to keep my directions. To make 
matters worse for me, the sky was a mass of 
solid gray, with the sun completely blanketed 
from sight. Rawlins grinned maliciously as he 
turned once and caught me scanning the sky. 

“ Better make a mark up there, Bud, ’cause the 
ol’ sun-ball ain’t goin’ to show to-day. I’ve 
got a special arrangement with the weather man; 
we’re in cahoots. Gettin’ tired? ” as I paused 
after a particularly steep scramble. 

“ Not so’s you could notice it. I can follow 
wherever you lead.” 

“Yep, I reckon you kin,” he snorted. “ Yore 


61 


In the Hands of the Enemy 

purty well favored as to legs. Mind me of Jed 
Sparks. Had a kid as long-legged as Jed his- 
self. * What you goin’ to make of him, Jed? ’ I 
ast him. 6 Singer, I reckon,’ he says. ‘ He’s 
got legs like a lark.’” Thatch laughed loud 
at his own story. 

“ You must have good wind,” I remarked 
sourly, “ to waste it cackling over a punk story 
like that. A hen wouldn’t cackle that loud over 
laying an egg. And the egg would be fresh.” 

“ So’re you,” grunted Rawlins. “One more 
crack like that an’ I’ll baste ye over the head. 
Get along now; I’ll have no more o’ this lag- 
gin’ behind.” 

We traveled on, Rawlins in surly silence, I 
chattering like a magpie. I took a malicious 
delight in aggravating the man, and I soon saw 
that my nimble tongue worried him. We had 
covered a good many miles when Rawlins called 
a halt with the caustic remark, “ Maybe you can 
shut up while you eat. They ain’t no other way 
o’ stoppin’ yore fool mouth. You got as many 
words as a dictionary, an’ they foiler one an¬ 
other with jest about as much sense.” 


62 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

That silenced me for a little. “ Ef it’s cloudy 
to-night,’’ said Rawlins as he noisily swallowed 
his last gulp of coffee and wiped his month with 
the back of his hand, “ I’ll turn you loose, so 
yon better be gettin’ yore bearin’s.” 

Thereupon he picked up his traps and made 
ready to break camp. Without a backward look 
to see if I was following, he took hold of his 
horse’s bridle reins and started off. More from 
force of habit than anything else, I followed 
along close behind. I ceased my chattering, hav¬ 
ing concluded to follow his advice and get my 
bearings. Not, however, with the idea of get¬ 
ting back to camp, but to determine if possible 
which way he was heading. 

I had arrived at the conclusion that the first 
few miles had been for my special benefit, all 
twists and turns. The same would be true just 
before he set me adrift. Right now, I reasoned, 
he would be following his true course, in the 
direction of the mine. If I could only locate 
two or three landmarks I ought to be able to 
prove the correctness of my conclusions as well 
as to figure out just about where the mine lay. 


63 


In the Hands of the Enemy 

Landmarks were not so easy to find. Every 
ridge looked much like its neighbors to east and 
west, north and south, though I had not the 
slightest idea which direction was which. By 
noting which ravines seemed darkest, and which 
slopes showed moss, I finally decided that we 
were following the backbone of a ridge system 
that led generally to the northwest, and that 
our line of travel was from the blue-gray peak 
just barely seen in the misty sky behind us, 
toward the cleft in the twin peaks perhaps fifty 
miles ahead. Indeed, I guessed that Rawlins’ 
trail would pass between those two giants, never 
dreaming that they lay thirty miles apart, the 
one on the right being all of fifteen miles beyond 
the other. 

The afternoon wore along. It must have 
been about four o’clock when I noticed that the 
country was changing in character. The peaks 
were smaller and rounder, standing like a lot 
of warts on a toad’s back. We climbed none 
of them but wound in and out along their bases, 
in some cases nearly circling them. An hour 
of this travel left me dizzy with trying to recall 


64 The Boss of the Big Horns 

which way we had come or whether I had seen 
this particular hill before. 

Then we came to a wide plateau, miles across 
and bordered all around by low hills like those 
we had just come through. Here Rawlins came 
to a halt. 

“ All right, Bud,” he said casually, “ I guess 
here’s whar you an’ me parts comp’ny. Kind 
o’ hate to lose yore sassiety, too, I does, ’cause 
you shore do shorten the way with that tongue 
o’ yourn. But the best o’ friends must part, 
an’ we’d best split afore we git too friendly. 
Le’s see — guess I can spare you a hunk o’ my 
bacon an’ a pound o’ flour. You got matches an’ 
that toad-stabber o’ yourn, so you needn’t go 
hungry long ef you make tracks straight fur 
camp — which, ’ ’ he warned with a sudden change 
of tone, “I’m advisin’ you to do. After sun-up 
to-morrer it won’t be healthy fur you in these 
parts.” 

“ Going to let me have my gun? ” I asked as 
carelessly as I could. 

“ Gun? Well, you won’t hardly need it much. 
It’d just be a load fur you to carry, bein’s you 


65 


In the Hands of the Enemy 

ain’t no shells fnr it. Too bad you lost all of 
’em climbin’ up an’ down these pesky hills and 
hollers,” he remarked with mock sympathy. “ I 
don’t aim to keep yore cannon, an’ when I get 
hack to Mineral City I’ll leave it fur you, leave 
it with Shorty Winters, ef you know who I 
mean.” 

“ Surely you’re not going to — to rout me out 
without a gun.” 

“ Shorely am. An’ you’d better git goin’. 
Yore trail lays straight acrost this flat, an’ I’ll be 
watchin’ here to see that you hit her on the 
line. That leetle hill next to the yaller-lookin’ 
one is yore guide. You kin make it afore plumb 
dark, an’ you’d better. Wait there till mornin’ 
an’ hike straight into the sun. An’ don’t turn 
around,” he finished sourly. “ I’m lettin’ you 
off dum easy this time! ” 

“I’ll say,” I snorted. “ You’re as tender¬ 
hearted as a turtle dove.” 

“ Git goin’! ” 

“ Be sure to write me,” I mocked. “ If you 
haven’t time for a real letter, a picture postcard 
will do. And any time you’re in my town, drop 


66 


The Boss of the Big Horyis 

in and meet my friends. I’m sure the sheriff 
will be glad to meet you — again.” 

“ Git! ” 

“ Any time you want a letter of recommen¬ 
dation for any position of trust don’t fail to 
call on me.” 

“ Young feller, I don’t aim to mistreat you 
none, anybody as green as you are oughta’ be 
pertected from their own foolishness. But I 
ain’t no wet nurse, so ef you don’t want a good 
old-fashioned spankin’, fur the last time-— git! 

The tone of that last “ git ” sounded entirely 
to forceful to be ignored. Besides, if the plan 
I had in mind was to be successful I had no 
time to lose. 

I had noted one thing about that “ flat ” 
which apparently had escaped the keen eyes 
of Bawlins. Somewdiere near its center, some 
five miles away, was a thin green line. It meant 
one of two things; a watercourse or a valley. 
It extended all the way across the plain, enter¬ 
ing the hills at the right, about a quarter of the 
circle from where I started. 

It would be fairly dark by the time I reached 


67 


In the Hands of the Enemy 

the line of green, too dark for Rawlins to see 
me if he were still watching, which I very much 
doubted. I had a notion that before I had 
gone a half mile he would be well on his way, 
swinging north and west, skirting the edge of 
the flat. If I had not miscalculated I ought 
to cross his trail not long after I entered the 
hills. 

If I did cross his trail—well, Thatch Raw¬ 
lins had not seen the last of me, not by a long 
shot. He had my rifle, my most prized pos¬ 
session. It was a present from Big Jim and 
so long as he had that I would follow him, though 
I lost his trail a hundred times. 

With these thoughts running through my mind 
I trudged along, never once looking back. The 
walking was easy enough. The ground was 
covered with a sparse growth of tough, wiry 
grass, with mountain daisies here and there 
and an occasional clump of low bush. The soil 
was very thin and poor, and no big trees could 
find a living. 

The sun must have set, for all of a sudden 
the gray was gone and darkness seemed to drop 


68 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

over me like a greenhorn’s tent when rain pulls 
the ropes on him. I still had a mile to go, or 
so I judged, with little chance of losing my 
way for a while, at least. A little patch of sky 
had cleared and now a big star shone out to 
guide me. 

There was one thing I would have to decide 
when I reached my line of green, and upon my 
decision depended the success of all my plans. 
Should I turn to the right or to the left? It 
was easy enough to say Rawlins was traveling 
north and west. Which was north and which 
was west? If the sky would only clear a little 
more I could easily get my directions from the 
stars, hut even now my little patch was closing 
in and my lone star shone mistily through the 
clouds. 

There was only one way to figure it out, and 
that was by reading my former captor’s mind. 
My experience in such things was limited, but 
Big Jim had given me the benefit of his keen 
mind and passed on a few of the lessons he had 
learned by hard knocks. One remark he had 
made will always stick with me: 


69 


In the Hands of the Enemy 

“ Some people get so much in the habit of 
being crooked that they can’t go straight when 
they want to. Their minds just won’t track. 
They’re the easiest to figure out. Just go oppo¬ 
site to the straight way and nine times in ten 
you’ve guessed them right.” 

This helped me to decide my problem. I felt 
sure Rawlins could not resist the chance for 
a last little joke at my expense. What was it 
he had said? “ Your trail lays straight acrost 
this flat * * * wait till mornin’ and hike 

straight into the sun.” 

“ Hike straight into the sun! ” And that, I 
hadn’t the slightest doubt, meant hiking straight 
hack across the flat the way I had come. 

In other words, Rawlins was sending me 
farther west. If so, then north would lie at 
my right hand, and by turning to the right I 
would soon cross his trail again and, I hoped, 
could square my account with him. 

About ‘the time I reached this conclusion I 
put a sudden stop to my mind-wanderings by 
falling flat across a log covered with trailing 
vines. The finding of that log was a welcome 


70 The Boss of the Big Horns 

discovery, even if the manner of finding it was 
none too pleasant. 

Rubbing my bumps and bruises, I rose and 
stumbled forward. I would soon known which of 
my two guesses was correct — whether this was 
a dry valley or the bed of a mountain stream. 
I found I was half right each way. There had 
been a stream, but all that was left of it now 
was a few scattered pools. However, they 
served to guide me on my course, and turning 
to the right I began an alternate wading and 
tramping that carried me steadily toward the 
hills. 

I tried to drink some of the water, but it was 
thick with slime and bitter with the roots of 
the trees that stood about the pools. I would 
have to go thirsty until daylight came to show 
me where good water was to be found. 

Morning, too, would show me something else. 
Rawlins’ trail, perhaps, but before that I ex¬ 
pected to learn whether he had traveled in the 
night. If he had not it would mean a wait of 
several hours till he should pass. 

It might have been two hours that I traveled 


71 


In the Hands of the Enemy 

forward, wet to the waist most of the time, 
when I realized that the course of my little 
streams of pools was changing. In the first 
place, the pools were growing deeper and closer 
together, with little rivulets a few feet wide 
connecting them. In the gloom I could see that 
the banks were higher, steeper, and the water 
seemed to be getting colder. 

“ Getting close to the hills,’’ I decided. “ Have 
to stop soon and make camp till daylight.” 

Came a bend in the course and the first step 
off-shore brought me into water up to my arm- 
pits. “ Jerusalemmy! ” I exclaimed. “ No¬ 
body’s pinned any medals on me for swimming, 
and I’m afraid I’ll take cold if I get my hair 
wet. Maybe I’d better try the shore trail for 
a while.” 

It was no easy task. At the right I found 
a steep rocky bank coming right down to the 
water’s edge. On the left it was a little easier. 
The rocks were there, hut they sloped a little. 
“ One more push and I’ll make the top, then 
I’ll stop there till the old sun-ball tells me a 
little more about this country.” 


72 The Boss of the Big Horns 

I was due for a surprise. Halfway up tlie 
slope I suddenly realized that I had stepped 
into a well worn path. “ Now what in thun¬ 
der’s been using this route to water! ” I asked 
myself. < i Must have used it a long time or else 
there’s a lot of them using it. I wouldn’t exactly 
like to meet a bear just n— ” 

The thought was never finished, for just then 
I caught a sound, faint and far off, but unmis¬ 
takably different from the usual noises of the 
night. I stepped noiselessly off the trail, though 
not far, for I dared not take the chance of 
starting a loose stone crashing down the moun¬ 
tain-side. Holding my breath I waited, strain¬ 
ing my ear to catch the slightest sound. 

The sound was drawing nearer, louder. Then 
it became a steady beat, like an army march¬ 
ing— no, like a drove of cattle passing along 
a hard road. 

Cattle here! In a flash came another thought. 
Sheep, mountain sheep! I thought of the big 
buck I had seen there on the mountain top, and 
involuntarily stepped back another pace. 

Then out of the gloom they came, gray, indis- 


In the Hands of the Enemy 73 

tinct shapes, marching single file. I did not 
count them; there might have been thirty. Silent 
save for their shuffling, clicking hoofs, they 
passed by. 

All but one. That one paused opposite me. 
Paused and raised his head, sniffing the wind. 

Did you ever go camping and wake up in 
the night feeling cold and reach down to pul] 
up the covers — and your right hand clasp the 
clammy folds of a snake coiled on your bed! 

Then you know something of the feeling that 
shot through me when that last member of the 
herd, halting opposite my hiding place, threw 
back his head and sent forth on the night air 
the most blood-curdling sound I have ever heard. 

Not a howl exactly, though it was loud enough 
to be called that. More like a growl, only less 
throaty. In its harsh notes was a threat that 
sent my blood running cold and raised the hair 
on my head. No sheep, that! But what? 

The answer was not long in coming. Appar¬ 
ently satisfied that his challenge would not be 
answered, the beast lowered his head, gave a 
complacent half-growl, half-bark, and ambled 


74 The Boss of the Big Horns 

along after the sheep, who had quickened their 
footsteps at his first nerve-tingling challenge. 

“ By cracky! ” I exclaimed aloud, but guard¬ 
edly, “ nothing but a dog ever made a sound 
like that. What would a dog be doing here? 
And following a herd of bighorn sheep!” 


CHAPTER V 


TRAILING THE CLAIM-JUMPER 

It is strange what a fellow will think about 
when he can’t go to sleep. Lying still at night 
we either forget our troubles or we magnify 
them. Following my experience along the nar¬ 
row trail, I had flopped my blankets on the top 
of the hill alongside the trail. Thoughts of the 
happenings of the past two days flashed through 
my mind, driving all sleep away. For the most 
part my thoughts were of the strange sight 
I had just witnessed. 

I could not keep from wondering about the 
relationship of the dog to that bunch of big¬ 
horns he had been following. Was he stalking 
them or herding them? Was he following them 
for his dinner, or to keep them from making 
dinner for some other stalker of the wild? At 
his growl I had heard the bighorns scurrying 
away, but that told me nothing. They would 

75 


76 The Boss of the Big Horns 

have scattered if his outburst had been their 
first warning of his presence, just as they would 
had his wierd growl told them of the presence 
of some other enemy. 

The only real evidence I had was that three- 
cornered fight between the big buck, the moun¬ 
tain lion and the dog. Yet what was the dog r s 
role there? It was a case of trying to answer 
one question by asking another one. It was too 
much for me, and for the thousandth time I 
shut my eyes and tried to go to sleep. My 
last thought before sleep finally came was the 
resolve that when the trail of Rawlins was ended 
I would take up another trail — the trail of the 
dog that followed the bighorns. 

At the first peek of the sun — and it comes 
early in the mountains — I was awake and alert 
for any sign of my late captor. I decided that 
a bite of breakfast would not come amiss before 
I took up the trail, and building a careful fire, 
I broiled a few thick strips of bacon. No 
smoke could have betrayed me to a watchful 
enemy, and in spite of my recent humiliating 
defeat at the hands of Rawlins I congratulated 


Trailing the Claim-Jumper 77 

myself that I was quickly learning the ways 
of the wild. 

As I munched my scanty fare I looked about 
to get the lay of the land. I found that my 
hill was really a broken-backed ridge, and that 
I was on the first and lower hump. A slight 
dip lay between me and the peak of the sys¬ 
tem. Once there I could get a view of a wide 
stretch of country, just the section I expected 
Rawlins to pass through, and I decided that my 
first move would be the scaling of that peak. 

It proved to be more of a task than I expected, 
for the dip between the two peaks turned out 
to be more chasm than ravine, and the first 
glimpse at its dizzy walls filled me with dis¬ 
may. Perhaps two hundred feet deep, its sides 
were almost straight up and down. A slight 
fault a little to the right gave me hopes that 
there might be a chance for a descent, so I 
started in that direction. The going was pretty 
rough and as I scrambled along I had a feel¬ 
ing I was not alone in this wilderness of 
boulders and stunted pines. There was the 
slightest break in the silence of the hills, and 


78 The Boss of the Big Horns 

while I could not put a name to it, I sensed 
it keenly. 

On rounding a great rock that stood out like 
a wart on the slope, I looked down into the cut 
where ran a tiny stream of silvery water, and 
grazing beside it was the herd of bighorns that 
had passed me on the trail the night before. 

I looked about for the dog that had given 
me such a scare by his fiendish howl, hut he 
was nowhere in sight. Neither was the big buck. 
I had a good view of the rest of the herd, all 
ewes and young rams, with a few baby sheep 
shouldering against the sides of their mothers. 

Then I heard a bleat, just around the bend 
of the little brook, and in an instant all the 
sheep had disappeared in that direction. I 
hurried forward, hoping to catch another sight 
of them and the big buck. 

I did better than that. I found myself at the 
top of the fault I had noticed, a narrow, jagged 
fissure that split all the way to the bottom. Here 
I had a good view down its clean-cut sides. 
What I saw was well worth a look, though it took 
me several minutes to grasp its meaning. 


Trailing the Claim-Jumper 


79 


Standing in the narrow pathway, with his 
back to me, was my friend of the night before. 
I could see him distinctly, standing there like 
a statue, and there was no mistaking his breed. 

He was a shepherd dog, a splendid specimen, 
one of the biggest I had ever seen. Certainly 
he was the finest figure of a dog I ever ran 
across, any breed or type. His tail was car¬ 
ried high and the scruff of his neck stood up, 
a challenge to any and all to attack him at their 
peril. 

Facing him was the big buck, also on guard. 
Apparently he was none the worse for his 
encounter with the mountain lion, and his bear¬ 
ing was almost majestic. He had a magnificent 
pair of horns, with great coils and sword-like 
points. Just now he was plainly aroused; his 
head held high and his nostrils flaring. 

For a full five minutes the tableau continued, 
and all the while I was trying to figure out 
what it was all about. The first move told me 
plainly enough. It was another case of the 
French at Verdun; the dog was saying: “ They 
shall not pass.” 


80 The Boss of the Big Horns 

The big buck bad a different mind. He was 
determined to lead bis flock up the steep path. 
Why should the dog wish to prevent it? A wild 
guess flashed through my mind: The dog knew 
my location and was protecting the sheep from 
me. 

The role of protector was no easy one, as I 
was soon to see. The big buck lowered his 
head and sprang forward, making a quick dart 
aside as he tried to come in past the snapping 
jaws. 

“ Well met! ” I exclaimed as the dog wheeled 
quickly and evaded the attack. “ You showed 
yourself boss of the mountain lion the other 
day; let’s see if you’ll prove boss of the big¬ 
horns to-day.” Unwittingly I had given him 
the name I was to know him by afterwards, 
“ Boss of the Bighorns,” or just plain “ Boss.” 

The battle was on, and it was the prettiest, 
cleanest fight I ever expect to see. The big¬ 
horn was clearly bent on the destruction of his 
foe, while the dog was just as evidently using 
only defensive tactics. That attitude could not 
last long, for the buck was a hard, aggressive 


Trailing the Claim-Jumper 81 

scrapper, and his needle-point horns met the 
hide a good many times. 

Thereupon the dog became a regular fury; 
snapping, snarling, darting, a whirlwind of teeth 
and claws that drew blood at every nip and 
thrust. The big buck was game and took the 
gaff, fighting all the way. It must have been 
half an hour that the battle waged, the other 
bighorns passive spectators, huddled together 
just out of range of the two clashing foes. 

It was a contest to test the mettle of any wild 
thing, be he dog or bighorn sheep, and there 
was no let-up until the buck, covered with blood 
from a hundred gashes, went down in utter ex¬ 
haustion. Through it all the dog, save for that 
low snarl of his, had uttered no cry of pain 
or defiance. He simply had a big job to do and 
he put his heart into the doing. 

The task ended, he stood for a moment pant¬ 
ing in great convulsive gasps. Then, wonder 
of wonders, he stalked over to where the buck 
lay as if dead, and after sniffing him over, fell 
to licking the fast clotting blood from the many 
terrible wounds. Here was an act of kindness 


82 The Boss of the Big Horns 

and staunch fidelity past human understanding. 

Suddenly the truth came to me. The splen¬ 
did fellow was herding those sheep. Prepos¬ 
terous? Well, perhaps. Yet the proof was 
there before my eyes. I knew it even before 
the big buck staggered weakly to his feet; knew 
it before the flock, led by the buck and driven 
by the dog — who was noisy enough now — 
turned and paced slowly up the opposite slope, 
disappearing from sight. 

The Boss of the Bighorns indeed! He had 
licked their leader in fair fight. 

“ What’s it all about? ” I asked myself, but 
there was no answer. 

A strange thing this. A glorious shepherd, 
masterless, yet hardly a wild dog, was driving 
a herd of untamable mountain sheep up a hill¬ 
side while I stood gaping after them. 

“ Never mind,” I promised myself, “ when 
I’ve finished my own little pet job and won 
my own fight, I’ll come back, Boss, and we’ll 
see who’s the 6 boss,’ you or I.” 

These were large words, but destined, in a 
measure at least, to come true. 


Trailing the Claim-Jumper 83 

In the meanwhile there was a big job imme¬ 
diately before me. I had a trail to locate, and 
the whole Eocky Mountain system in which to 
find it. 

Still, I had hopes that before many hours I 
would be gazing down upon the trail that Raw¬ 
lins would follow. Just now my best plan was 
to follow the lead of Boss and his flock up the 
next hill. From there I could map out my next 
move. 

I flatter myself that I am a fair climber, but 
it was an hour before I stood on the peak. At 
no time had I caught sight of my trail-makers, 
but now as I made a half circle of the long 
slope before me, I saw them almost at the 
bottom, tiny specks of moving white, a good two 
miles away. 

“In a hurry to leave this neck of the woods, 
or maybe he’s going somewhere. I wonder if 
he is — goin g somewhere. I wonder.” 

I turned my eyes toward the east, where I 
confidently expected to catch sight of my other 
quarry, but neither horse nor rider was in sight. 
In all that expanse there was no moving thing 


84 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

in sight save that single file of bighorn sheep, 
snowy-white in the distance, and close behind 
them the brown speck I knew to be “ Boss.” 

“ Nothing to do but wait here an hour or so, 
and then if nothing shows up I’ll have to cut 
across lots and see if I can spot the trail. 
Rawlins won’t leave much of a trace in this kind 
of country, even if he doesn’t suspect that I’m 
following. I guess I’ve elected myself to some 
job.” 

After a half hour of silent watching I began 
talking aloud in order to break the monotony 
of the vast, oppressive silence. “ Got to remind 
myself that I’m out here in the wild without 
a gun, and that foxy old Rawlins saw to it that 
I didn’t have more than enough grub to take 
me back to camp — if I hustled. I can go on 
light rations and make it stretch an extra day, 
but that’s my limit. I have a hank of fishline 
in my pack, and I know there’s one hook there. 
Maybe I could jerk a trout out of one of these 
brooks, though I can’t depend on that. A half 
hour more up here and then I’m going to hit 
the hillside. 


Trailing the Claim^Jumper 85 

“ There’s my one signboard, that big lump 
of dirt across yonder, and beyond that is my 
other landmark. If Rawlins passes between 
them — and be’s pretty near bound to — I ought 
to be able to pick up bis tracks. If he’s already 
passed, he’d be in that stretch of scrub pine 
on that long slope by now. If so, be traveled by 
night to make it. If be started at daylight he’d 
still be out of sight to the south. So that’s 
that until the clock strikes six.” 

Rawlins was not in sight at the end of a full 
hour. I was somewhat disappointed as I began 
the long descent of the bill. I found an easy, 
well-marked path, over which a countless num¬ 
ber of sheep and deer had trod in the ages past. 
It led in the general direction I was going and 
I was well satisfied to follow it. One thing 
perplexed me as I climbed down and toward 
the northeast. As my angle of sight changed I 
saw that my two mountain peaks did not lie 
as close together as I had figured, and as I went 
farther I saw that there was no mere valley 
separating them, but that other hills lay be¬ 
tween them. 


86 The Boss of the Big Horns 

Since I had been wrong as to that, maybe 
I was mistaken all along the line. Maybe Raw¬ 
lins was not coming this way at all. Perhaps 
he would swing east of the closer mountain. 
If I cut straight across, our paths would inter¬ 
sect all of twenty miles away. 

“ Maybe I’d better hike hack to where he 
turned me loose and pick up his trail there. 
But shucks, think of all the time I’d lose. 
No, I’m going to fight it out on this line if 
it takes all summer, or at least until my grub’s 
gone. I’ll cross his line of march before dark, 
and I’ll keep my eyes peeled every step.” 

Resolutely I set myself to the task of cover¬ 
ing as much space as possible, using all cau¬ 
tion once I was on the level that I should not 
miss the least sign of Rawlins’ passing. Every 
mile or so, when the country would permit, I 
climbed a tree or a rise to scan the landscape, 
hut no moving dark speck rewarded my efforts. 

My appetite gave me a dozen false alarms 
long before noon came. At last I sat down 
beside a cool mountain spring and drank my 
fill. I cut off a small piece of lean bacon and 


Trailing the Claim-Jumper 87 

chewed it, trying vainly to persuade myself 
that I had dined well. Fortunately, a half hour 
after I had resumed my journey I ran into a 
clump of blackberries that were juicy ripe. 

The farther I traveled the slower I went, 
feeling sure that Rawlins must have passed this 
way not long before. Twice I shouted with 
joy, only to change my tune the next instant. 
At one place a bear had scratched a mark in the 
hard earth, digging for a root; and the sec¬ 
ond time some smaller animal was responsi¬ 
ble for my short-lived hope. When I did find 
a real sign it was all unexpected; in fact, I 
nearly passed it before I realized that I had 
come near missing the one best bet. 

It was only a broken bit of branch, a few 
paces off my course. A bear might have torn 
it off, or it might have been broken by the 
wind. I changed my opinion quickly as I care¬ 
fully felt over the ground below where the 
branch had hung. Eyesight was no good here; 
it takes fingertips to locate a trail in ground so 
well covered. 

Yes, there it was, the print of a hoof. Who, 


88 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

save Rawlins, would be riding in this wild 
country! I felt its outline carefully. “ Going 
west by north,’’ I murmured. “ I sure was 
some little old guesser. Now for some real 
trailing.” 

It took real trailing. In spite of all my care, 
and my certainty that northwest was his gen¬ 
eral direction, I was sadly puzzled a good many 
times as the afternoon wore along. 

“ All right, blackberries,” I remarked as I 
came upon a thick patch loaded with big ripe 
fruit, “ we’ll just call this the finish — for you, 
especially. It’s been a long time between bites, 
as the rattlesnake said to his mate.” 

After eating my fill of the ripe berries and 
resting for a half hour, I felt so refreshed that 
I decided to go forward a bit. I had been fol¬ 
lowing a much fresher trail the latter part of 
the afternoon, and I had some slight hopes 
that the gleam of a campfire would reward my 
efforts before long, for night was settling over 
the mountains. 

The next hill, a scant half mile away, brought 
my reward, and from its summit I caught the 


Trailing the Claim-Jumper 89 

first glimpse of my former host. While I could 
not see him clearly I did see how every now 
and then the light of the fire would he hidden 
from me as he passed before it. 

“ All right, Buckskin,’’ I chuckled, “ you’ve 
showed yourself such a good trailer, now let’s 
see what kind of a scout you are and how close 
to Rawlins you can get without being discov¬ 
ered. If he didn’t pack a gun,” I added grimly, 
“ I’d get a lot closer than Mr. Thatch would 
care for.” 

Thereupon I began a very careful descent 
of the steep slope, fearful lest even at this dis¬ 
tance some mistep betray my presence. As I 
drew nearer I doubled my caution; the last 
quarter mile was made at a snail’s pace. For¬ 
tunately there were many low clumps of bush, 
and even had the night been less dark I could 
have come close without much danger. 

Doubly aided by the bushes and the night, I 
crept steadily nearer until a scant twenty feet 
separated us. I had been compelled to circle 
the camp in order to avoid Rawlins’ horse, 
knowing that he had keener ears than his mas- 


90 The Boss of the Big Horns 

ter. However, the horse was much occupied with 
his grazing and took no alarm at my presence, 
even if he noticed it. 

There sat Rawlins, also much engrossed in 
grazing, though his took the form of coffee, 
pan bread, bacon and a brownish substance that 
looked very much like fried young squirrel. 
It was all I could do to keep from jumping on 
his neck and snatching the delicious looking mor¬ 
sel from his hand. 

However, I decided to bide my time, being 
greatly pleased with two discoveries made by 
my first hasty survey of the camp. Rawlins 
had pitched camp under a big pine, and leaning 
against the tree were two rifles — mine the 
nearer to me. Rawlins had his back to the tree 
and had taken off his belt and thrown it on 
the ground close beside the two rifles. In the 
belt holster hung both his six-guns. He was 
unarmed. 

It was the work of an instant to slip back 
into the bush, worm my way around directly 
behind the tree, crawl over and stand up, hid¬ 
den by its trunk. From here I could not see 


Trailing the Claim-Jumper 91 

Rawlins, but I was quite sure be bad not seen 
me. Pausing a little for breatb, I reached cau¬ 
tiously around tbe tree till my outstretched fin¬ 
gers caught the touch of cold steel. My rifle! 
I drew it to me. 

I had been nervous until that moment, but 
the feel of my beloved weapon seemed to steady 
me. As coolly as if my foe had been ten miles 
away instead of that many feet, I threw the 
lever halfway down and felt to see that a cart¬ 
ridge was in place. Then I stepped around the 
tree into the firelight. 

“ Well, Mr. Thatch Raw-Lewis, I’ll trouble 
you for a helping of that squirrel.” 


CHAPTER VI 


THE FIRST MAN FIGHT 

“ Help yourself, son, ,, replied Rawlins easily, 
“ as long as you’ve come all this way to get 
it. But why all the gun play? ” 

“ Didn’t you get the squirrel with a gun? ” 

“ Shore, kid, I done that, hut I didn’t shout 
afore I shot.” 

“ You won’t after I shoot, either, if you don’t 
take your hand away from that skillet. I don’t 
aim to have my clothes spoiled with hot grease 
in case you should miss my eyes.” 

“ You’re a cool un,” he said admiringly, 
drawing back his hand. 

“ Gun always keeps me cool.” 

“ Huh,” a grunt, “ you won’t be so cool next 
time we meet. I’ll give you a spankin’ with my 
bare hands.” 

“ There’ll be more smart in your hands than 
there is in you head then.” 

92 


93 


The First Man Fight 

‘‘Yah — if you had muscles to match your 
tongue, young feller, you’d be the world’s strong¬ 
est. Mind if I help myself to another piece 
of my squirrel — out of the skillet? ” 

“ Not at all. You might pass it — skillet 
and all.” 

“ Thanks.” Then with a sudden change of 
manner as he took hold of the handle of the 
hot frying pan: “ Now young feller, I’m going 
to let you in on a secret. But while I’m a-tellin’ 
it don’t get excited and do nothin’ rash. Nothin’ 
like tryin’ to git over to that tree an’ pick 
up a real gun else I might take a notion to toi¬ 
ler yore clever suggestion an’ let you have that 
piece o’ squirrel in its own grease, which might 
put yore purty lamps out. The fact is, that 
gun o’ yourn ain’t no more use than a pair o’ 
hind legs to a chicken. It jest won’t shoot. 

“ Yep,” as I started in dismay, “ it won’t. 
It’s got ammunition, all right, but you see I 
took the firin’ pin out. I was lookin’ at the 
gun — purty plaything — while I rested my horse 
ag’in noon, an’ I took out the firin’ pin an’ plain 
lost it; it’s so danged little, ye know. You 


94 The Boss of the Big Horns 

might pull the trigger once an’ save callin’ me 
a liar.” 

I did pull the trigger. A sharp click was all. 
We stood there a matter of a full minute, fac¬ 
ing each other, he with his skillet, I with my use¬ 
less rifle. 

“ Might as well drop your squirrel pan,” I 
remarked finally, “ your grease is cold.” 

“ Still warm enough to lard any bullets yore 
gun’ll fire. Maybe I won’t save that spankin’ 
till next time, after all,” drawled Rawlins. 
“ Grease or no grease, I’ll hash yer head ef 
you make a move toward them guns.” 

“ While you’re doing all that bashing, kindly 
keep one good eye on the butt end of this 
gun. If your skull’s as thin as your bluff you’ll 
have a stove in your dome that’ll keep you 
warm o’ nights.” 

That was the end of the parleying, for the 
next instant, with a roar like that of an angered 
bull, Rawlins slammed the skillet at my head. 
I dodged it by an inch and the next moment he 
charged full at me, ducking under my bran¬ 
dished rifle. Before I could fully realize what 


95 


The First Man Fight 

had happened he had both arms clamped around 
my chest and was crushing the breath out of 
me. 

Strangely enough, after that first instant of 
panicky fear my feeling was one of relief. 
Strong as his grip was, it was not overpower¬ 
ing. I found I could struggle against it. But 
for a little while at least my movements were 
slow, my resistance weak. My mind was not 
on the fight — not this fight. Sharply, as at the 
movies, a picture had flashed into my mind: Boss, 
facing and vanquishing the bighorn buck. “ Yea 
showed your mettle there, dog, just as I am 
being called on now. It was the test of your 
dogship. This is the test of my manhood. IVe 
got the size of a man, the muscles of a man. 
All right, boy, let’s see if you’ve got the heart 
of a man.” 

It was indeed my first man fight. As a young¬ 
ster I had had a few scraps, but there it was 
a case of fighting for the pure love of battle; 
after it was over we shook hands and were bet¬ 
ter friends than ever. There would be no hand¬ 
shaking after this set-to. 


96 The Boss of the Big Horns 

How long did I spend thinking of these things ? 
A minute? A second? I don’t know. Only 
until Rawlins, feeling secure in my lack of fight, 
had released one hand and was working it to¬ 
ward my throat. Then I’ struck, a short-arm 
jab that traveled a scant two inches but caught 
him full on the jaw and rocked his head. With 
his free hand, the other still clutching me madly, 
he pummeled me in the back over the kidneys. 

I gave a twist that wrenched every muscle 
in me and tore loose from his grasp, only to 
take a blow over the heart as I staggered back. 
I tried to counter, but fell short, giving him 
a chance to bore in and smash me twice in the 
face before I could cover up. 

I had boxed a great deal and loved the game. 
Back home there were few boys of my age or 
size who would offer me any advantage. But 
this was different. Rawlins was no beginner 
himself, and worst of all, he had learned his 
fisticuffs in a school that asked no quarter and 
overlooked no advantages. Any blow was fair, 
so long as it landed; any trick was commenda¬ 
ble. Tripping, kicking, gouging, holding, all 


The First Mem Fight 97 

were legitimate. It was a wrestling match, rough- 
and-tumble and prize fight rolled in one. 

I had hiked all day, while Rawlins had ridden; 
Rawlins had featsed, while I had famished. On 
my side was youth and a clean life. “ I can 
stand the gaff longer than he,” I encouraged my¬ 
self, ‘‘just so he doesn’t break through and knock 
me cold.” 

It was apparent that he was bent on doing 
that very thing without any loss of time. He 
was fast, quick on his feet, and there was power 
behind his punches. Every one that came home 
left a sickening ache and more often than not 
brought the blood. 

Close guarding of my body left me open to 
a jab that cut a gash over my left eye and 
threatened to blind me with the blood that 
gushed out. He followed up the advantage with 
clean short jabs to my midsection that almost 
knocked the wind out of me. 

Oh, I fought back! Despite the dizziness and 
the pain, each exchange of blows found me cooler 
even if weaker, more confident of winning the> 
fight. Behind me were the guns, and past my’ 


98 


The Boss of the Big Horns 


flying fists he could not press. Out-punch me 
he might, but out-maneuver me he should not. 
It was to be a fight of flesh against flesh, and 
let the best man win! 

There were no rounds, no referee, no specta¬ 
tors, no applause. No one groaned when a ter¬ 
rific right to the jaw sent me reeling, nor cheered 
when Rawlins, crowding me close after that 
wicked blow, ran full tilt into a solar plexus 
shift that made him grunt and drop his guard. 
My right to the jaw then was meant to knock 
him out, but in the flickering light of the camp 
fire my judgment of distance was poor, and my 
knuckles suffered as much as did his chin. 

To this day I marvel at that fight; marvel that 
I lasted through it. There was the time when, 
missing a left swing, I tripped over a root and 
went sprawling into both his fists. One arm 
swung about my neck, the other fist beat back 
and forth like a triphammer, sounding a devil’s 
tatto on my short ribs. I clinched with him, 
and balancing uncertainly, we struggled for a 
fall. When it came I was beneath, but I rolled 
clear and struggled to my feet. 


99 


The First Mm Fight 

Once more we went at it. All thought of the 
guns was forgotten now. Rawlins’ only aim 
was to annihilate this mere boy who had dared 
to defy him. Back and forth we battled; through 
the fire, over it, swinging vicious rights and 
lefts above its singeing flames. It was not a 
pretty fight to see. 

Just when I thought Rawlins was beginning 
to weaken he redoubled his efforts, hut the very 
violence of his attack gave me heart. Some¬ 
thing told me that it was the last flare of his 
strength; that he was making a despairing effort 
to beat down, in one supreme assault, the ad¬ 
vantage that youth was giving me. 

The ebb of that effort sent a glow through 
me that did much to revive my flagging strength, 
a glow of amazement that I had been able to 
stand so much punishment. 

I did not know how far to trust the apparent 
weakness of Kawlins ’ blows. Big Jim had once 
said: “The hardest time to knock out a game 
man is when he’s almost licked.” Coupled with 
that was his comment on a street brawl we had 
once witnessed: “ When a yellow dog knows he’s 


100 The Boss of the Big Horns 

beaten, then’s the time to look out. He’ll play 
his last dirty trick just before he’s ready to run 
for it.” 

Rawlins knew he was licked. He knew that 
in a fair, man-to-man, stand-up-and-take-it fight, 
I was his master. I had met his blows with 
blows, his holds with breaks, his cunning with 
equal cunning. It was my first man fight. 

Conscious of impending defeat, he was a more 
dangerous adversary than Rawlins the victorious 
bully. Easily victorious, he would have been 
satisfied to bestow a few parting kicks on me, 
throwing my useless gun at me as I scurried 
out of camp. Now, nothing but my life would 
satisfy him. I knew that. The guns! A knife! 
I tried to read his thoughts as I parried his 
futile blows, feeling desperately for an opening 
that would let my right through and end the 
fight. 

A knife — the guns — which! 

A sudden lightning dart of his right hand 
groundward was my first warning of his inten¬ 
tion. His hunting knife, used in dressing the 
squirrel, had lain glinting in the firelight. Now 


101 


The First Man Fight 

it gleamed menacingly in Rawlins’ hand, cutting 
a vicious circle in the air as he lunged toward 
me. 

“ You — you rat! ” he screamed as the blade 
flashed toward my heart. 

It was a close instant. There was just one 
chance to take and I took it. Out went my 
arm to catch the blow. At the same time I 
struck hard with my right. The two blows 
landed together. I felt a sharp jab of pain 
as the keen blade bit through the flesh; a numb¬ 
ing surge of agony swept through my right arm 
as my fist, with all the strength of my body 
behind it, caught Rawlins flush on the chin. 

I heard a snap as his teeth came together. 
For a moment he stood there, arms hanging 
limp, and his eyes seemed to fix on some distant 
point. Slowly his knees sagged, then his head 
jerked forward on his chest, and doubling up 
like a jack-knife he plunged forward on his 
face. A convulsive twitch, then he lay very 
still. He was knocked out — cold! 

I thought my first duty was to myself, and 
after making sure that his heart was still beating 


102 The Boss of the Big Horns 

I turned my efforts to dressing and binding my 
wounds. Good water was near-by, and sticking 
Bawlins’ revolvers in my pocket and throwing 
his rifle far into the brush as a precaution 
against a possible revival before my return, I 
went to its cool relief. A handerchief torn into 
strips served as bandages, but most of my bruises 
and cuts had to be satisfied with water dressing. 

The knife gash was the only serious wound. 
The blade had bit deep, all but coming out on 
the other side, right through the fleshy part 
of my forearm an inch or so below the elbow. 
I had difficulty stopping the flow of blood but 
the cold water finally did the trick. In the mean¬ 
time the slight faintness that had come over 
me as I cleaned out the cut was fast disappear¬ 
ing. A long, reviving drink of the cold water 
drove the last fog from my brain. 

“ Better go back and take a look at my victim, 
I guess. Might take him a drink, too. Expect 
he needs it.” 

He surely did. I hope that I shall never 
again see such a battered, swollen face. He ap¬ 
peared to be unconscious, though beginning to 


103 


The First Man Fight 

writhe and twist. I had brought water from the 
spring in the camp coffee pail, and this I threw 
on his head, retreating hastily for another pail¬ 
ful when his choking and sputtering warned me 
that he was regaining consciousness. 

When I returned he was sitting up. His 
groans would have sounded pitiful to any ears 
save mine, but they were music to my soul — 
much as I hate to confess it. “ Want a drink 
of water! ” I asked, when his groans had some¬ 
what subsided. 

His reply almost stunned me. “ Dash it, not 
Water! Ask a Westerner if he wants a drink of 
water to bring him to! Bad as the Kentucky 
colonel who had been hurt in a runaway. Asked 
him that same question. i Gad, sir/ he cried, 
‘ I must be dyin’ sure or nobody ’d ever dare 
ask me if I wanted water! 999 

This reply told me several things: First, that 
Rawlins wasn’t all bad — that he was game to 
the core, for all his yellow; and that he had 
been conscious a long while before I returned! 

“ Get up,” I commanded shortly. “You 
can’t play off on me. I’ve got your guns, so 


104 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

you don’t need to be casting your eyes around 
for them. I threw your rifle somewhere in the 
brush. You can find it in the morning. I’m 
going to take one of your six-guns with me and 
a few shells from your belt. You will find it in 
Mineral City the next time you go there. I’ll 
leave it with Shorty Winters. You may have 
heard of him,” I added with biting sarcasm, re¬ 
peating his parting remarks to me just twenty- 
four hours before. 

“ What you going to do with the other gun? ” 
he asked sullenly. 

“ Take out the cylinder pin and keep it as 
a souvenir in exchange for my firing pin.” 

“ Take my advice, buddy, and go slow on that 
stuff. Do you know what I was doing while 
you was givin’ yore bloody noggin a bath down 
there at the spring? ” 

“ Having bad dreams, from the face you were 
making when I came back.” 

“ Them six-guns is empty. Yep, take a look 
at ’em. I was cleanin’ ’em while the squirrel 
was browning just afore you come. An’ that 
ain’t all; the belt’s empty, too. I’ve got all them 


105 


The First Man Fight 

purty little cabridges in my pocket — see? ” 

“ I do. I’ll have to lick you again, I guess, 
to make you give them up.” 

“ Shore will,” cheerfully. “ In the mean¬ 
time you kin oblige me an’ my pardner by stickin’ 
yore paws into the blue. Show him yore creden¬ 
tials, Shorty.” 

I wheeled. The i 1 credentials ” — a pair of 
forty-fours — were there, backed up by a wizened 
creature who well deserved the name of 
“ Shorty,” but whose hands were as steady as 
the mountains themselves. 

“ Oh, yes, he’s there, and that’s really him,” 
snorted Rawlins. “ Mister Vance, meet my 
friend and pardner, Shorty Winters. And you 
might just hand him over that gun o’ mine, as 
per yore agreement. Shorty, take the gun, an’ 
hand him his rifle. I tol’ him you would,” 
with a derisive chuckle. 

I took the useless rifle, was relieved of the 
six-gun, and then asked casually: “ Want the 
other popgun? I had both of them.” 

“ Turn around,” ordered Shorty. 

I did. I did more than that. As I turned I 


106 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

swung my rifle out of the crook of my arm, 
caught the end of the barrel and let it crash with 
fall force against Shorty’s chin. 

“ Look out! ” yelled Rawlins, quick-witted 
enough to anticipate the maneuver hut too slow 
with the warning. 

“ Lights out! ” I shouted, ducking low and 
running with all speed into the darkness. 


CHAPTER VII 


BOSS LEADS THE WAY 

It was a wonder I did not go crashing into a 
tree as I careened wildly through the night, 
trying to put as much distance as possible be¬ 
tween me and ruffians. I could hear them close 
behind, blundering through the brush. Finally 
the sounds of pursuit died out and I slowed 
down, confident that my movements could not be 
heard. 

One thought cheered me as I finally came to 
a full stop some two miles from the scene of 
conflict — cheered me in spite of the fact that 
I had lost all my equipment, blankets and food, 
saving only my useless rifle. The coming of 
Shorty Winters told me two things. First, we 
were near the mine. Otherwise, in this land of 
big distances, Shorty would never have been 
able to step into the scene at such an opportune 
time. 


107 


108 The Boss of the Big Horns 

The other thing was not a fact but a theory. 
Shorty had come from Mineral City, while Raw¬ 
lins had come from Tartel. We were much 
closer to Mineral City, perhaps no more than a 
day’s journey on horseback. Either the two 
had met by appointment, or by chance. Know¬ 
ing Rawlins pretty well by now, I figured that 
he was not a man who left things to chance. 
Shorty must have known that Rawlins was on 
the way to the mine or he wouldn’t have come 
here to seek him. Why should he seek him? 
Ah, there was where my theory came in. 

Big Jim had talked with Shorty. In asking 
him questions he had betrayed more of his secret, 
perhaps, than he had intended. Shorty, loyal 
to the man who had befriended him, had come to 
warn Rawlins that another was hot on the trail 
of the mine. 

It all sounded plausible enough, but it left me 
up in the air as to my future plans. What 
could a boy with a useless rifle do against two 
armed men? Not much, I had to admit. I 
could not get along without food, and aside 
from fishing I had no way of getting any. 


109 


Boss Leads the Way 

Suppose we were close to the mine; suppose 
I followed the two and located it, what then? 
I shrugged my shoulders. Away down deep I 
knew that I would do that very thing. After 
that I would trust to luck. First off, however, I 
would steal a wink of sleep. I knew that Raw¬ 
lins and Shorty would not wait until dawn to 
break camp. Daylight would find them well on 
the way to the mine, if not at it. Oh, well, a 
little sleep wouldn’t do any harm, and finding 
the softest spot I could, I curled around my lank 
stomach for a much needed rest. 

It was broad daylight when I awoke. I tried 
to jump up in my usual manner, but my muscles 
were too sore for that. My arm felt like a board, 
knots and all, and there was an ache above my 
left eye that made we wince. I was conscious, 
too, of a gnawing in the region of my stomach. 

“ 0, for a dozen flapjacks and a pint of black 
coffee! ” I sighed. “ I could eat a leather strap 
and pick my teeth on the buckle.” 

After a little massage and careful exercise I 
warmed the soreness out of my muscles enough 
so that I could get up and walk about. In the 


110 The Boss of the Big Horns 

meantime I took stock of my few possessions. 
I still had my pocketknife, a few matches, my 
watch, a length of stout cord, and my useless 
rifle. All I lacked was a firing pin. I still had 
plenty of cartridges, loose ones I had stowed in 
my shirt pocket and which Rawlins had over¬ 
looked when he had relieved me of the others. 
Then, too, the magazine of the rifle still held a 
few. How useless they seemed! 

Thereupon a real idea came to me. Once, years 
hack, I had been given an old .22 rifle. It 
was minus a shell extractor and the spring was 
weak. The firing pin was worn off so that it 
wouldn’t dent the end of the shell. With a 
shingle nail and a file I had fashioned a firing 
pin. 

One blade of my knife was a file, but how 
about a shingle nail? My shoes had rubber 
heels that had been put on with short, heavy 
nails. If I could get one out, there was my 
firing pin. 

It was no easy task. Try it some time with¬ 
out any tool save a pocket knife. 

I don’t suppose I could have managed it if I 


Ill 


Boss Leads the Way 

hadn’t found a nail that had not been driven 
all the way in and so was not clinched. Even 
then I put several unwelcome knicks in the big 
blade of my knife before the nail finally yielded 
and slowly came out. It took half an hour of 
patient filing before it would fit my rifle, and 
the small blade of my knife lost its life acting 
as a screw driver. Even so, I figured the sacri¬ 
fice was well worth while. 

“ All right — squirrels, pack rats, bears, cata¬ 
mounts and hoptoads, look out, I’m coming! ” 
I exclaimed as I started for the nearest clump 
of trees. “ One of you is going to have break¬ 
fast with me if you don’t look sharp.” 

A squirrel was the unlucky one, and the first 
shot brought him tumbling from the top of a 
blasted pine. It did not take long to have him 
roasting over a hot fire, and even less time 
for me to dispose of all but the bones, for, though 
saltless, it was done to a delicious brown. 

“ There! ” I sighed comfortably, “ aside from 
a few thumps, bumps, bruises and cuts, I’m bet¬ 
ter off than ever. Now to follow after my two 
friends and try to locate their mine.” 


112 The Boss of the Big Horns 

It was quite evident that I had been right in 
my guess that they would take to the trail at 
once, for the fire was burnt out except for a 
few charred ends that had been scattered by our 
fight, and my blanket and pack lay in the bushes 
where I had dropped them, in plain sight if the 
two had waited for daylight. They had left 
plenty of telltale tracks, as if they had no fear 
of pursuit. And, after all, why should they? 
Perhaps they had never heard of a shoe nail 
firing pin. 

I started on their trail at once, feeling that 
I had no time to lose. That feeling gradually 
gave place to one of perplexity, for the trail, 
while easy to follow, kept changing direction. 
“ As if they kept changing their minds,’’ I 
remarked, wondering if this was the real reason. 
Their course was still generally northwest, al¬ 
though once they went due west for nearly thrfce 
miles, and then the trail swung a'round the spur 
of a lonely peak and lead back south. 

The worst was yet to come, for suddenly all 
trace of their passing ceased. “ Surely they 
couldn’t have back-trailed. Wouldn’t do that un- 


113 


Boss Leads the Way 

less they were trying to throw me off the scent, 
and I doubt if they give a whoop whether I 
follow or not. Guess I Ml have to circle.” 

The quarter mile that I cut around brought 
results, hut hardly what I expected. I struck 
an old and much used trail, a path such as I 
had found hack in the bighorn country. 

“ The question now is,” I debated, “ whether 
my two friends came along this game path or 
where they did go. It’s beaten as hard as marble 
and their horses weren’t very sharp shod. Look¬ 
ing for a hoof mark is like standing with your 
mouth open under a cherry tree and waiting for 
a cherry to get ripe and drop in. However, 
maybe I had better hike along a hit and see what 
I can see.” 

In the course of half a mile I saw marks in 
the trail that might have been made by a horse¬ 
shoe. Again, they might have been cut by the 
sharp hoofs of sheep. I followed on, my course 
bearing a shade north of west. It was well that 
I decided to follow the trail. 

After an hour or so I came to a positive bit 
of evidence. The path led through timber, and 


114 


The Boss of the Big Horns 


midway of the clump was the remains of a fire. 
Judging from the feathers, Eawlins and Shorty 
had dined well on mountain partridge — break¬ 
fast, no doubt. According to that, I could not 
be more than six or seven hours behind, for my 
watch showed the time to be a little short of 
noon. 

However, my stomach did not quarrel over the 
few minutes that were lacking. It was busy 
grumbling about another matter of more conse¬ 
quence to it. “ Never mind, tummy, maybe we’ll 
run across the mate to that partridge before long. 
Just now we’ll have to push ahead and see if we 
can cut down their lead, and trust to luck for 
dinner. ’’ 

As luck would have it there was no dinner, 
and supper proved to be almost as slim, though 
luck of another sort was certainly with me. As 
I look back upon the whole affair I must con¬ 
fess that luck had a great deal to do with it 
all the way through. I did some tall guessing 
from time to time, and it was only the greatest 
good fortune that when it counted most I guessed 
right. Witness my next guess. 


115 


Boss Leads the Way 

Along about three o’clock, just as I had 
topped a peak I had been eyeing for miles and 
hoping I would not be called upon to climb, I 
saw something that made me whistle in sur¬ 
prise. No, it wasn’t the fact that near the crest 
of the opposite slope I could see two horses, 
and ahead of them two plodding men. That was 
a joyous sight, but hardly surprising since I 
had been looking for it this long while. 

I saw Boss! 

He was alone, coming across the valley below 
me at a swinging trot, his head low and his tail 
high, as if he were following a familiar trail. 
That was the first thing that struck me. When 
he came to the game path, visible to me even at 
this distance, he paused an instant, sniffing, going 
back and forth a dozen steps or so. Then, as if 
deciding that the scent he had noticed was none 
of his business, he left the path at right angles 
and followed up the valley. 

Right then I made the wildest guess of my 
whole career. All along I had been trying to 
fit Boss into the scheme of things; to figure out 
what he was doing and how he came to be here 


116 The Boss of the Big Horns 

in the mountains. A dog and a man go together. 
There had been only one man I knew of in these 
parts. Big Jim’s brother. That is, if the story 
Shorty had told were true and the man really 
was Tom Raily. Could it be that Boss was Tom 
Raily’s dog, left here masterless when Tom, 
sick and delirious, had made his way to Mineral 
City? 

As I stood there watching the dog, his steady 
gait and unwillingness to change his direction 
and follow a new scent, however warm it might 
be, served to convince me that he was going to 
some definite place. About the only time a dog 
will refuse to hunt is when he is headed for home. 

That was it, I decided. Boss was going home. 

If the rest of my wild guess was correct, 
then home was the miner’s cabin, and the cabin 
would not be far from the mine that the three 
of us were seeking — Rawlins, Shorty and I. 
Of one thing I was now certain; the two men 
did not know the exact location of the mine. 
In all that vast country there was but one living 
creature who could go unerringly to the spot — 
Boss! 


117 


Boss Leads the Way 

Which should I follow? I puzzled over this 
question for a full minute. I could still see both 
of my guides, the dog and the men. Should I 
follow the dog, who knew; or the men, who did 
not? “ Columbus took a chance,’’ I argued, 
“ guess I will too. I can find this hump again 
and I can find their trail anywhere they’ve 
passed. If I’m fooled in Boss, all I’ve lost is 
time, and I’ve a lot of that. If Boss leads 
me true — boy! I’m there! There, and with a 
firing pin in my rifle. Lead on, Boss, I’m hot on 
your trail.” 

This was a large boast, for the dog was setting 
a killing pace and already had a big lead. How¬ 
ever, in this up and down country, almost bare of 
trees and underbrush, it would be no great trick 
to keep in sight for every little ridge gave a 
fellow a five mile view ahead. Then, too, I had 
a hunch that the trail would not be long. 

We started out due north, almost at right 
angles to the course I had been following. As 
Boss disappeared over the summit of a long, 
gradual slope, he had gained a still greater lead, 
and I was barely started up the slope. I made 


118 The Boss of the Big Horns 

the top of the ridge in good time and plunged 
down the grade just as Boss was topping the 
next ridge. Between us was a deep ravine, 
with the other side promising some mighty rough 
going. 

It took just an hour to manage it, and at that 
I felt that I had reason to he proud of the speed 
of my progress. I was rather anxious as I 
neared the top. Boss had made much better time 
than I. If the next dip from sight was very 
close he would be far out of my range of vision. 

I had good cause for worry. The crest I 
had been expecting was not on my ridge but on 
the next, fifteen minutes farther on. When I 
had topped this I found I was in a new kind of 
country. The mountains seemed to end here, 
sweeping down toward wooded lowlands in a 
long, easy descent. Before me lay such a vast 
sweep of country that I was fairly staggered by 
its magnitude, accustomed though I was to great 
distances. Away in the distance I fancied I 
saw the clustered houses of a town, and nearer 
at hand I was sure of a group of ranch buildings. 

These details I saw at the first glance, but a 


119 


Boss Leads the Way 

closer survey failed to reveal my speeding guide. 
Boss was nowhere in sight. I carefully scanned 
each ravine leading down to the blue line that 
marked the place where night had already 
claimed the earth, but no moving speck was to 
be seen. 

“ Now what! ” I asked myself. “ Night is 
coming on pretty fast and I wouldn’t be able to 
get half way back to my old trail before dark. 
Here there is no trail at all. Looks like the 
earth had swallowed the dog. He sure isn’t in 
sight. He’s had time to get a long way ahead 
of me, but I can see for a long way, and no 
dog. Time to exercise my guesser again. That 
mine isn’t many miles from here, I’ll gamble 
on that.” 

I wasted no time in further speculation, but 
decided to follow along the crest, keeping an 
eye on both sides of the ridge, for I had no way 
of knowing whether the dog had passed through 
this last ravine. I turned to the right, moving 
slightly up hill, arguing that if the dog’s destina¬ 
tion were lower down he would have crossed 
farther to the east where the ridges were lower. 


120 


The Boss of the Big Horns 


Half an hour later, when I was just about to 
give up the job, a faint yelp at my left drew my 
attention. It was too far away for me to de¬ 
termine whether it was dog, coyote or timber 
wolf, but I was ready to believe that it came from 
the throat of Boss. At any rate I hastened my 
steps in that direction. 

A half mile had been covered before I again 
heard the sound. This time it was very distinct, 
so close that I almost expected to see its maker 
right at my side. 

I turned, but no dog met my gaze. This 
puzzled me, for the sound had been so close and 
my view was unobstructed for a quarter mile 
in that direction. Nevertheless I turned toward 
the sound, trusting my ears rather than my 
eyes. It was well that I did. Within less than 
two hundred yards the ground dropped away 
sharply into a shallow gully that zigzagged off 
to the west. 

And there was the dog! Surprised as I had 
been at my first sight of him there where he 
and the big buck had fought the mountain lion, 
I was more surprised now. 


121 


Boss Leads the Way 

Down at the bottom of the ravine was a tiny 
cabin of logs and sod, a door and a window 
on the side facing my position. My first glance 
showed Boss standing before the door, scratch¬ 
ing and whining. Now he darted to the window, 
jumping up as if to hurl himself through it, but 
each time falling just short of the mark. Then 
back to the door he would go, clawing at it in 
a frenzied effort to tear it down. 

“ Poor fellow,” I said aloud. “ He thinks 
his master is still inside.” 

I started to climb down the steep cliff, and 
in my haste I overlooked an easy path less 
than fifty feet away. However, I managed to 
slip, slide, stumble and fall the fifty feet or so, 
landing with a thump less than a dozen yards 
from the cabin. 

Up to this time the dog had paid no atten¬ 
tion to me. Now he dashed toward me, snarl¬ 
ing and showing his teeth, but halting when 
I lifted my gun to a position where it would 
be handy. Slowly he backed away from me as 
I moved toward the cabin door, darting aside 
as his back struck the corner of the cabin. 


122 The Boss of the Big Horns 

For some reason that I could not understand 
I dreaded to open that door. The latchstring was 
ont, in true Western style, and there was noth¬ 
ing sinister looking about this tiny little box¬ 
like house. Still I hesitated. Perhaps it was 
the dog and his unfriendly attitude that made 
me nervous. 

At any rate I called, “Hello, there! ” sur¬ 
prised at the shakiness of my voice, and start¬ 
led by the echo that the hills flung back. 

There was no answer. I reached out and 
pulled the latehstring. With a whining creak 
the door came open. I heard a noise and 
stepped aside just in time to avoid being 
bowled over by the dog. He had dashed through 
the door and turning just inside the threshold, 
stood facing me with bared fangs. With a 
deep-throated growl he invited me to come in 
if I dared. 

For a moment I stood there, peering into the 
gloom of the cabin, trying to make out the form 
of the objects seen in the half-light. A creepy, 
uncanny feeling stole over me and again I sang 
out a halting, “ Hello, there! ” and again only 


123 


Boss Leads the Way 

the hills flung back an answer. Silence then, 
save for the deep growling of the dog, challeng¬ 
ing my advance. 

I had no desire to come in. Gradually my 
eyes grew accustomed to the dark interior and 
beyond Boss, half seen in the last dim light of 
the dying day, a man was seated at a rough table 
made of a log split in half. Another log was his 
chair, the back made of two small limbs and 
a crosspiece. He was leaning forward, his head 
on the table, like one who has fallen asleep. 

I knew instinctively that he was not asleep. 
There was something so pathetic about the way 
his head lay on the table. 

The man was dead! 


CHAPTER YHI 


A DEAD MAN'S TALE 

I do not know why the sight of that dead 
man should have given me such a tremendous 
shock. I had seen dead men before. Perhaps 
it was the deep shadows of the coming night, 
the deeper shadows of the canyon, the utter 
loneliness of the place. The uncanny chal¬ 
lenge of the dog might have had something 
to do with it. I do not know. I do know that 
I dreaded to enter that doorway, and it was 
not through fear of the chattering jaws of the 
dog. 

I called to the huddled figure, expecting no 
reply and receiving none. I spoke to the dog, 
coaxingly at first, but his only answer was to 
increase his growls. Then I tried command¬ 
ing him, but his response to that was to crowd 
closer to the doorway and stand, teeth bared, 
ready to leap at me. 


124 


A Bead Man’s Tale 


125 


I looked about for a stout club, but saw none. 
44 I’d bate to hurt you, Boss, but if that’s a 
can of beans I see there on that shelf, I’d 
pretty near shoot you for it. Which end of a 
gun frightens you most, butt or muzzle — ah, I 
thought so. You’re gun-shy, eh? All right, 
just mosey out of my way. That’s the boy, 
back out. You can growl all you want once I 
get that door shut in your face.” 

At the first sight of the leveled rifle the dog 
had begun to back away. He did not cringe nor 
did he abate his threatening attitude, but he 
did give ground. I knew that if the rifle bar¬ 
rel wavered the least bit he would leap at me 
and do his best to tear me to pieces. I did 
not relax the slightest until I had him bluffed 
outside the door. 

Then I slammed the heavy door and dropped 
the stout bar in place. 4 4 At last we are alone! ’ ’ 
I exclaimed, then checked my levity at the 
thought of my inanimate companion. I had to 
come close to him in getting to the battered tin 
lamp that stood on the table, and my heart almost 
stood still as I reached over his shoulder. 


126 The Boss of the Big Horns 

One glance at his face when the light flared 
np was enough to tell me that not only was 
he dead but he had been dead for several days, 
three or four at least, perhaps a week. The 
cause of his death was not so easy to deter¬ 
mine, although there was a bandage about his 
left arm, from which the sleeve had been ripped 
to the shoulder. Other details I did not stop 
to note just then, for in the man’s hand was a 
pencil, one of these silver, automatic affairs, 
and beneath its point lay a sheet of paper. 
Without removing it I read: 

“ Dear Brother: 

“ I have tried and tried to get word to you, 
so that I can pass on to you the good fortune 
that I am afraid has come too late for me. 
It’s a gold mine, buddie, a bonanza; the kind 
you and I used to dream about in the good old 
days. I’ve staked her out and filed my claim, 
so there’s no chance of being beaten out of it 
as I was the last mine I located. 

“ I have had some trouble with my partner, 
a no-account ticket-of-leave man from old Eng¬ 
land, but unless he double-crosses me worse than 


A Bead Man’s Tale 


127 


I give him credit for having brains to do, all’s 
well. We had a slight disagreement about his 
share in the claim, but we’ve finally agreed to 
dissolve partnership and he will stake the next 
claim below discovery. 

“ But I’m afraid I’m done for. I had a bad 
fall at the shaft two weeks ago — broke my arm 
and smashed my ribs pretty bad. Thought we 
had the damage all repaired, but a ledge caved 
in on me two days ago and now I’m laid up 
for fair. A nasty cough has set in and I 
seem to be bleeding internally. Partner’s gone 
to town to get me a doctor — hope I last till he 
gets back. I’ll finish this letter when the table 
stands still and the room quits turning round 
on me. ’ 9 

Evidently there was a lapse here of several 
days, and when the letter was continued, on 
another sheet, the writer’s condition had changed 
greatly for the worse. The handwriting was 
scrawling, the letters illformed, and the sentences 
did not always make sense. 

4 4 Partner came back — no doctor. Horse threw 
him or something. Threw him, I guess. Says 


128 The Boss of the Big Horns 

so anyway. Bad fall he had. Think he’s out 
of his head; at least he’s hazy. Both hazy. 
Things don’t seem very real. Got a notion 
he’d like to see me kick off — help me, maybe. 
Says he was in Mineral City but I know he 
wasn’t. No doctor would refuse. He goes back 
to-day or there’ll be murder done. 

“ ’Pard, you got to bring me a doctor — I’m 
off my top. 

“ He’s gone. That last shot was uncom¬ 
fortably close. Going out soon to see what 
he took. Needn’t come back; I don’t seem to 
care. Everything is easy if you just don’t care. 
Remember first time I told you that? Cough’s 
bad, though, and queer lights dance front of 
my eyes. Wonder if it’s night yet. Been dark 
now for two days. 

“ I’m sorry we had that fight. He was a 
good partner and square. Maybe the horse 
did throw him. Wonder if he took my horse. 
And Nip — haven’t seen Nip for two days. Re¬ 
member now I sent him with a letter. Same 
as St. Bernards. Remember the story in the old 
reader? No snow here though. Guess I didn’t 


A Dead Man’s Tale 


129 


send him—just out hunting for food I guess. 

“ Good dog, Nip, just like his mother. Finest 
sheep dog in world. Carry letter like St. Ber¬ 
nard. Wish I had letter. 

“ Must be morning; it feels warmer. Help 
to-day or no use. No use, I guess. Just heard 
something; sounds like a shot. Dreaming, I 
guess — shooting was yesterday — day before, 
maybe. Wonder if I hit him. Guess he got 
me, or is it the cough? Must have hit me, 
though. 

“ Oh, well, what’s the diff? All got to go 
some time. My time, reckon. That’s good Yan¬ 
kee. Funny notion for dying man. Guess I 
am.” 

After that the writing became a scrawl, the 
words running into each other and the lines no 
more than wavering curves across the page. But 
at the very end was one sentence, startling not 
only because it was just as carefully framed 
as if it had been a line in a copy book, but stand¬ 
ing out like a shouted accusation: 

“ He murdered me, just the same as if he 
had stuck a knife through my heart.” 


130 The Boss of the Big Horns 

That was all. No signature; no date. Such 
was the dead man’s last message. 

I stood there astounded, jumping as if shot 
when a sudden puff of wind caused the lamp 
to flicker. It was easy enough to read between 
the lines of that letter. The writer of the let¬ 
ter had been injured, sick, and the other had 
started for the doctor, returning when his horse 
threw him. They had earlier quarreled over 
the division of the claim. Now the quarrel 
broke out afresh, the injured man charging that 
his partner had double-crossed him — had not 
been thrown from his horse at all; had not 
gone for the doctor; wanted him to die, in fact, 
so that he could have all the gold. 

The quarrel had gone from words to blows, 
then to a gun fight in which both had been 
wounded. The other had made his escape, on 
the writer’s horse probably, and the poor fel¬ 
low here had ended his delirious days alone, 
deserted even by his dog. It was impossible 
for me to determine the elapsed time since all 
this had happened. Several days at least, or 
a week; perhaps even longer. 


A Dead Man's Tale 


131 


I tamed from the letter to examine the body. 
One look at the face was enough to turn me 
sick with mingled loathing and pity. Mummi¬ 
fied. The dry mountain air had done the work 
of embalming well. The flesh had shrunk and 
dried on the bones. It looked like leather; a 
peculiar, semi-transparent, brownish hide that 
somehow made one see pitiful pictures of star¬ 
vation, misery, and lonely death. The huddled- 
up figure, the clothes bagging over the stack 
of bones, completed a doleful picture. 

No, not completed. There was the rough shack 
of a cabin, ghostly in the flickering light of the 
tiny lamp. Just outside the cabin was the dog, 
a snarling threatening thing whose voice rose 
in menace at each move I made. 

I could picture him, coming back every little 
while to the lonely cabin with the closed door; 
could see him leaping high at the window and, 
at a higher leap than usual, catching a glimpse 
of the bowed figure at the table, his master who 
would not answer his insistent calls. For hours 
he would prowl about outside, vainly trying to 
figure out the why of the closed door and the 


132 The Boss of the Big Horns 

lack of response to his urgent, pleading bark. 

So 4 ‘Nip ’’ was his name. Well, I had given 
him a new name, one that suited him better, 
I thought. 44 Boss ” he would always be to 
me. 

I opened the door and called him. To 44 Boss 99 
he made not the slightest response. Then I 
commanded sharply, 44 Nip, come here! ” 

He advanced a step or two into the room, 
looked questioningly at his dead master, then 
back at me. For a second I thought he would 
spring at my throat. The hair on his back 
bristled straight up, the muscles of his limbs 
and jaws grew tense as he gave a defiant growl. 
Then, as if the truth of the situation had pene¬ 
trated his understanding, he came forward to 
the rude chair, sniffed inquiringly at the rigid 
legs, licked the one hand that hung stiff beside 
the chair. For a long minute he stood there, 
motionless as his master. Then with a look at 
me that seemed to say, 44 I’ll remember you,” 
be turned and trotted into the night. 

Never a backward glance as he went out of 
the cabin, nor when I stood in the open door, 


A Dead Man’s Tale 


133 


holding high the lamp in a vain effort to see 
where he had gone. “ Back to his sheep,” I 
told myself, “ leaving me with his dead.” A 
moment later from far down the ravine there 
came a mournful, long drawn howl, and its tone 
was one of utter melancholy. Guarding the 
flickering light with one hand, I silently closed 
the door. 

What was I to do? When a man dies there 
are certain things to be done — in civilized com¬ 
munities at least. What was the proper thing 
here in the mountains? 

“ Easy enough,” I decided. “ Just leave 
things as they are. The poor fellow has gone 
so long without burying that a few more days 
won’t do any harm. I’ll soon have plenty of 
help. Old Thatch won’t be long in getting on 
the right trail, and when he comes I’ll have 
something to take care of besides dead men. 
There isn’t a doubt in my mind that this poor 
chap is Big Jim’s brother. Well, Big Jim will 
know when he comes, and I’d give a pretty if 
he’d come first.” 

I felt doubly sure that it was but a matter 


134 The Boss of the Big Horns 

of time until Jim would find this cabin. On 
reaching Mineral City he would find Shorty 
and no doubt worm some valuable information 
out of that simple-minded soul. Then, too, he 
would look up the records and see if his brother 
Tom had filed on any claim. If so, the location 
would be given and it would be a simple mat¬ 
ter to come direct to the mine. If there had 
been no filing, and he found Shorty unwilling 
to talk, I felt sure he would watch Shorty and 
trail him, just as I had trailed Rawlins. Doubt¬ 
less Jim was within a few miles of Shorty the 
night before when that gentleman had so unex¬ 
pectedly stepped into the little affair that Thatch 
and I were conducting. 

In the event Jim’s trip to Mineral City was 
fruitless he would return to camp, and finding 
my note would long since be hot on my trail. 
His ability to trail any living thing was unques¬ 
tioned. This latter circumstance deserved no 
consideration, for the dead man’s letter declared 
that he had filed on the claim. This thought 
gave me a start. 

Rawlins was a shrewd man. He would not 


A Dead Man’s Tale 


135 


go blindly looking for a mine if he could deter¬ 
mine its location from the records. Could it 
be that Rawlins had earlier found the mine and 
had slain the man who now sat so still at the 
table? Could he have written this letter and 
left it as a plant to cover up his crime? If 
there had been a filing, Rawlins would know it. 
Mayhap the dead man, in his delirium, had only 
fancied that he had filed on the claim, and per¬ 
haps after all Rawlins was really in the dark 
as to its exact location. 

One question after another piled into my 
bewildered brain, until I had no hope of solv¬ 
ing the many mysteries. However, I clung to 
the belief that Big Jim would soon arrive, and 
I could picture his surprise at finding me ahead 
of him. 

I decided to make the best of a bad situation, 
and began to look about to see what I could 
find in the dead man's, larder. I found an 
ample stock of canned goods, and there was 
flour, tea, sugar and bacon. The baccn was dry 
and mouldy on the outside, though the inner 
portion looked most appetizing. Having built 


136 The Boss of the Big Horns 

a tiny fire outside the cabin, I was soon feasting 
on broiled bacon and a can of cold beans that 
I had found in the larder. On second thought 
I decided to camp outside the cabin for the 
night. The air in the cabin was none too 
wholesome, and after three months in the open, 
walls and ceiling gave me a cooped-up feeling 
that I did not enjoy. 

The camp site I selected lay back of the cabin, 
sheltered on two sides by big rocks and hidden 
from the cabin by a mound of earth whose fresh¬ 
ness bespoke recent digging. Before turning in 
for the night I went back into the house for a 
short inspection. I had seen a rifle hanging 
above the table, and I had an idea that there 
would be cartridges for it somewhere about. I 
had less than a dozen shells left for my own 
gun, and if Rawlins and Shorty came — well, 
an extra round or two of ammunition might not 
come amiss. 

The rifle was a thirty-two and would carry 
seven cartridges in the magazine and one in 
the chamber, as I discovered in my careful 
examination by the dying light of my fire. I 


A Dead Man’s Tale 


137 


had found a full box of cartridges, and the rifle 
had three in it. A glance through the barrel 
showed that the gun had been fired since the 
last time it had been cleaned, which fit in pretty 
well with the fight told of in the letter. 

Satisfied that I was rather well supplied with 
defensive armament, I rolled myself in my 
blanket beside the fire and was soon sound 
asleep, tired but well content with the way 
things had turned out for me. “ In the morn¬ 
ing,’’ I murmured sleepily, “ in the morning 
we’ll see what kind of reception we can pre¬ 
pare for our two mine hunters.” 

In the morning it was too late. 

When I awoke it was with a suddenness that 
banished all sleep. Traces of night still hung 
about and the sun was not above the horizon, 
although clouds would have hidden its yellow 
disk had it been up. Without knowing what 
it was, I realized that something must have 
awakened me. I lay there listening for a repeti¬ 
tion of whatever it was. It was long in coming. 

I had almost dropped back to sleep before I 
heard it again, and then at first I did not rec- 


138 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

ognize the sound. It was different from any¬ 
thing I had ever heard before out in the open. 
It began with a muffled drone, then increased 
both in volume and pitch till it sounded for 
all the world like a high-powered saw cutting 
into knots. Then it would dwindle to the merest 
whisper; then silence. This was repeated a 
dozen times before I solved the mystery. I 
finally located it as coming from the cabin, or 
at least from that direction. 

Then I tumbled. I nearly burst out laugh¬ 
ing, though if I had it would have been no 
laughing matter. It was some one snoring! 

Now there were just three people who might 
have been snoring at that time and place. Big 
Jim I at once ruled out, for I had never heard 
him snore. The other two were Shorty Winters 
and Rawlins. 

Evidently, at least if my guess was right, 
they had not been so far behind me as I had 
figured. No doubt they had come upon the 
cabin sometime after I had fallen asleep, and 
had made camp there. I wondered if they had 
investigated the cabin and had discovered its 


A Dead Man’s Tale 139 

grewsome occupant. If so, had they left the 
body there? That I could soon find out. All I 
had to do was to see where they were sleeping. 

Needless to say, I made no noise as I slipped 
out of my blankets. Picking up my own rifle, 
I hid the other one beneath a jutting corner of 
one of the big rocks and cautiously picked my 
way forward, keeping the cabin between me and 
the snoring sleeper. As soon as I was safe 
behind its shelter I solved one of my questions. 
They were not sleeping inside. Evidently they 
had found the dead man and preferred their 
own company while asleep. 

As I drew near I solved another problem. 
There were two sleepers. The one snore was a 
gentle one, hardly to be heard when the real 
one cut loose. So it must be Shorty and Rawlins. 

Now to risk a peep around the corner of the 
cabin to see just where they lay. Safe enough. 
Those snores certainly bespoke sound sleepers. 

As I cautiously peeked around the cabin, a 
daring plan jumped into my mind. The cabin 
was stoutly built of logs, rough-hewn but closely 
joined. It was a regular fort. Once inside its 


140 The Boss of the Big Horns 

shelter I could stand off a dozen men. Not for 
a long siege, of course, but at least until Big 
Jim would arrive on the scene, which would 
hardly be more than a day longer. There was 
the question of water, to be sure, but there was 
a good stock of canned goods, each can with a 
little store of liquid I could drain out. 

Then a real idea seized me. I knew that Baw- 
lins and Shorty, like most ignorant men, were 
superstitious. I felt sure that they hadn't the 
slightest inkling of my presence. Suppose that 
I slipped inside the cabin, hid myself carefully, 
and then, when they came in — which they would 
shortly after they awoke— I would entertain 
them with a series of groans that would rival 
Thatch's loud snoring. The prospect seemed so 
amusing that a stifled laugh almost spoiled the 
plan in the beginning by waking my intended 
victims. Bawlins moved slightly, but after a 
prodigious yawn, settled back for another snooze. 

That gave me my chance, although first I 
slipped back and got the rifle which I had taken 
from the cabin. No telling how long I would 
have to hold off my two rivals, and I didn't want 


A Dead Man’s Tale 


141 


to run out of ammunition just when victory 
was within my reach. With both rifles clutched 
tightly, and walking on the halls of my feet, I 
crouched low and darted swiftly around the 
corner and through the door. 

Safe! A hasty glance out the window told 
me that my entry had been unnoted. Now for 
a hiding place. I finally decided that the dark 
corner under and behind the table was the best, 
in fact there was no other hiding place in the 
tiny box-like room. I was well satisfied with 
this, for my groans would be all the more realistic 
coming from close to where the dead man sat. 

It was a long wait before the sound of voices 
warned me that my two intended victims were 
astir and preparing breakfast. This served to 
remind me that the excitement of my discovery 
had driven all thoughts of food from my mind. 
Even so, I would have time enough to eat after 
the morning’s entertainment. Still, the aroma 
of frying bacon and fragrant coffee that was 
wafted my way came pretty near being madden¬ 
ing. At last came the signal for which I had 
been waiting: 


M2 The Boss of the Big Horns 

“ Well, Shorty, guess we’d better take a look 
over the morgue and see what the deceased has 
left to his heirs — heirs being us. Eh? ” 

“ Ought to be some papers to tell whether he’s 
filed or not, anyhow.” 

“ Papers nothin’! We’ll work this place with¬ 
out papers. When we get through anybody can 
file on it as wants to, far’s I’m concerned.” 

“ You think it’s a pannin’ layout, then. Won¬ 
der which way she lays from the cabin, up or 
down.” 

“ Both ways, more’n likely. Let’s have a 
look-see at the cabin.” 

“ I ain’t stoppin’ ye. You shorely ain’t 
skeered of that dead man by daylight.” 

“ Wasn’t scared last night. Just keerful, 
that’s all.” 

Shorty laughed. I chuckled aloud at the 
thought of the fright that was coming to both. 
Then, as I heard the shuffle of footsteps, I 
crouched low behind the shelter of the table. 

“ Nothin’ scary lookin’ ’bout that, is there? ” 

It was Rawlins speaking, and his matter-of-fact 
tone made me doubt the success of my plan. 


A Bead Man’s Tale 


143 


“ Nope, nothin 1 — but you go in first, Thatch.” 

“ What you ’fraid of? ” 

“ Same thing you are. That man didn’t die 
natural, that’s all.” 

“ What of it? He’s dead, aint he? ” 

“ Shore. But the sperrits of men what die 
by vi’lence don’t rest easy, an’ no good ever 
come of haunted gold.” 

Despite Rawlins’ sniff of disgust, I felt that 
now was the time to begin my good work. I 
groaned, deeply, agonizingly. 

Rawlins was the first one to bolt away from 
the cabin door. 

“ What’s that! ” The exclamation came from 
two throats, both shrill with alarm. 

And then it was my turn to exclaim, for in 
Rawlins’ most everyday tones: 

“ Shorty, le’s see your heels. There’s some¬ 
body gone in that door since that feller died. 
Somebody what wears rubber heels. Look at 
that print — it’s fresh.” 




CHAPTER IX 

THE MIDNIGHT BURIAL 

That was the beginning of a lively time for 
me. Rawlins was essentially a man of action. 
Superstitions he might be, but that telltale heel 
print chased all the cobwebs out of his mind. 

“ Shorty,” he commanded, “ take a look 
around the cabin an’ see ef there’s any way o’ 
gettin’ out ’sides the winder an’ door. Then 
we’ll smoke out that ghost o’ yourn in short 
order.” 

There was a brief silence as Shorty executed 
the command, then, “ Nope.” 

“ All right. That grunt come from behint 
the corpse — under the table, more’n likely. 
Ain’t nobody passed that door sence I been 
here. I’ll watch the door whilst you see ef you 
kin find a crack dost to the table.” 

I had a hunch that all this palaver was meant 
for my benefit. I listened intently, not for 
144 


The Midnight Burial 145 

sounds behind me, but in the opposite wall, the 
logical place for them to attack. Sure enough, I 
heard a slight tap-tap, as of someone digging 
cautiously at the hardened clay chinking. A 
little piece of mud plaster fell inside. I saw a 
tiny shaft of daylight stream through the crack. 
It was shut off, then clear again. 

“ All right, you, come out an’ show yerself. 
I’ve got ye covered.’’ 

Impulsively I caught up my gun, aiming just 
a few feet to the right of where the voice had 
come from. I had no desire to commit murder, 
but I felt it was time to let them know that while 
I was no ghost, neither was I an easy victim. I 
pulled the trigger. 

“ Ouch! ” 

I knew I had not hit Kawlins, although a 
splinter from the edge of the log might have 
stung him. At any rate I felt sure that both 
he and Shorty had retired to a safe distance. 
A moment later I caught the mumble of their 
voices. After a long conference I heard the 
shuffle of approaching footsteps, then a soft, 
wheedling voice. 


146 


The Boss of the Big Horns 


“ I say, pard, what’s the idea? Come on out 
an’ show yerself. Ef you ain’t got no more 
ag’in us than we have ag’in you, tain’t no 
shootin’ matter.” 

I tried to make my voice as hoarse and un¬ 
recognizable as possible as I replied: “ All 
right, then, beat it. This is my property and 
I don’t allow any trespassing. I’ll give you 
five minutes to get out. After that I start shoot¬ 
ing and I won’t aim to miss! ” I put a special 
emphasis on that last. 

6 ‘ Neither do we.” Rawlins was speaking. 
“ We’re two to one, an’ it won’t take long to 
smoke you out o’ yore nest, so better come out 
peaceable an’ we’ll settle this thing friendly.” 

“ One minute gone! ” was my only answer. 

“ Don’t fool yerself, young feller.” I started 
in dismay. I had forgotten to disguise my voice 
in that last remark, and I knew that now Raw¬ 
lins had identified me. “ Don’t fool yerself. It 
won’t be a case o’ spankin ef we have to yank 
you out of yore hole.” 

“ Two minutes gone. No monkey business 
either, Rawlins, or I’ll stop the clock on you. 


The Midnight Burial 147 

“ Big talk, kid.” Rawlins still, but be had 
moved to a different quarter. “ I don’t know 
yer game, nor yore pardner’s game, but yore 
first victim in there is goin , to be yore last far’s 
Pm consarned.” 

“ Three minutes gone! ” 

“ Y’ought to git a job in the movies; you talk 
like a phonygraph. Better come on out afore we 
git real peaved. It’ll be lots easier fur ye.” 

“ Four minutes gone! ” 

There was np answer. I waited a little while, 
then, just for the sake of provoking an outburst 
from Rawlins, ‘ 1 Time’s up. Look out! ” 

Still silence. I heard vague rustlings without, 
but could not place them. For a moment I had 
a wild idea that they were setting the cabin on 
fire, but I concluded they would hardly do that, 
at least not until other methods had failed. 

A shadow flitted across the tiny hole Rawlins 
had made. Bing! I fired, not with any real 
idea of hitting anything, but just to show them 
I was on the alert and meant business. 

Bang! A return shot flattened itself against 
the logs a few feet from where I crouched. 


148 The Boss of the Big Horns 

Through the door, I figured. Wish I had it shut. 
Better try to shut it. Ouch — that was a close 
one. Maybe I’d better stay right where I am. 
If they come much closer to me I may have to 
pot one of them yet. 

The firing had ceased. I waited a full ten 
minutes for further action and the suspense was 
beginning to tell on my nerves. Finally I got 
up enough courage to crawl out from behind the 
table and slip along the wall until I was back 
of the door. A quick fling and it was slammed 
shut. I waited a moment, figuring my action 
might draw their fire, then jumped to my feet 
and slammed the heavy bar in place. 

Whew! That made me feel a bit more secure. 
I made a tour of inspection, finding in each 
wall of the room a chink hole that gave me a 
good view of the landscape. Not a soul in sight. 
I pondered this a little, then decided that it was 
only a ruse to get me to show myself. “ Not 
so easy, my hearties. I’m going to bide in here 
till my reenforcements come. Then we’ll give 
you a real battle. In the meantime, they say an 
army fights on its stomach, and this army’s got 


The Midnight Bwrial 149 

a full sized one that’s crying for grub. Let’s 
see what the larder holds.” 

I opened a can of beans, eating them cold and 
making no complaint because of that. As I 
finished the last spoonful a little piece of bark 
fell in my dish. 

“ Now what’s the idea of that? ” I questioned 
as I picked it up and inspected it. “ Where 
there’s a bark there should be a bite. Wonder if 
my ambitious friends plan calling on me by way 
of the roof.” 

I looked up. A tiny patch of blue sky greeted 
me. “ Huh,” I grunted. “ Must be a squirrel 
up there. Guess I’d better see if I can bring 
him down.” 

I held my rifle stock between my knees and 
pointing the barrel straight upward, pulled the 
trigger. Wow! what a scrambling followed. 

“ I say, Rawlins,” I jeered, “ when I asked 
you to drop in on me some time I didn’t mean 
for you to take it literally.” 

I heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like 
profanity, then all was silence once more, to be 
broken finally by a low, tense whisper: “ Keep 


150 The Boss of the Big Horns 

down off that roof, you fool! Hell pot you like 
a pigeon.’’ This from Rawlins. 

I admit I should have been on my guard, but 
I did look up, only to realize the next instant 
that Rawlins had put one over on me, for at 
that moment came a sharp command: 

“ Reach for the sky, youngster, an’ drop that 
popgun doin’ it! ” came from the window, and 
I turned to find myself staring into the muzzle 
of Rawlins’ six-gun. “ Now you open that door, 
an’ just keep yore paws off of that rifle.” 

In a flash I realized that here was my chance. 
Once I was at the door, Rawlins could not see 
me. True, my rifle was in plain view and under 
the table, but just a few feet from the door 
was the dead man’s rifle. While I was fumbling 
at the bar with one hand I could be reaching for 
the rifle with the other. Rawlins, expecting me 
to come out unarmed, would be caught unawares. 
With him in my power it would be an easy mat¬ 
ter to dictate terms to Shorty. 

All this in the space of a second as I stepped 
toward the door. I reached out, even before I 
took hold of the bar, and caught up the rifle. 


The Midnight Burial 151 

Then I made a great pretense of trying to lift 
the bar. 

“ It sticks,” I called. “ Shove in on the door.” 

“ Shove on the door, Shorty, whilst I watch 
the window. I think it’s just a dodge to get a 
chance to grab back at his rifle.” 

Shorty shoved, the while I thought rapidly. 
If I could lay out Shorty, quickly, then turn my 
rifle on Rawlins, I would be in clover. But 
how? A jerk at the bar that raised it an inch. 
I might jerk the door open suddenly while he 
was bearing against it, hit him with the butt of 
the gun as he went sailing past. Another jerk 
at the bar; it was nearly clear. “ Now, Shorty,” 
I called, “ Push! ” and I raised the bar full and 
jerked in on the door. 

It worked as planned. In flew the door, Shorty 
following it, completely unbalanced. My rifle 
followed the circle he made, catching him flush 
on the back of the head. Not so hard, really, 
but harder than I had intended. Down he went 
in a heap. Then I turned to confront Rawlins. 

“ Pretty neat, kid, but you still got me to 
reckon with.” 


152 The Boss of the Big Horns 

He had me covered, and my rifle was still 
wrong-end-to. 

“ Yeh, I got you. Just drop that gun, too, 
an’ we’ll talk things over, with me doin’ most o’ 
the talkin’. All right, Shorty, you kin wake up 
now. Them ain’t birds you hear singin’. Here’s 
the bird made you lissen to his chirpin’. Get a 
rope an’ we’ll tie his wings.” 

“ Hold on, Thatch,” it was a new voice. 
“ Maybe you’ve heard the old saying about 
birds of a feather flocking together. Here’s an 
old crow that’s got a little bone to pick with 
you about this wing tying business.” 

It was Big Jim! We had all been so engrossed 
in our little party that we had not noticed his 
approach. Now he came leisurely forward, his 
automatic held carelessly in his hand but very 
evidently ready for business at the first sus¬ 
picious move on Rawlins’ part. Rawlins no 
longer had me covered, having half turned to¬ 
ward Big Jim. On the other hand I had taken 
advantage of his turning away to pick up my 
rifle and point it toward Shorty, though he did 
not appear to need much covering, being satis- 


The Midnight Burial 153 

fied to squat on the floor and rub the back of 
his head. 

“ What say, Rawlins? Ready to park your 
guns? 

* 4 Here, Tod, take his shooting irons — well, 
all right, pick up Shorty’s first. Now, Rawlins, 
you’re next. Bring ’em over here Tod, and we’ll 
take out their stingers.” 

He broke the guns and took out the cartridges, 
then handed them back to their owners, Shorty 
having come out of the cabin, rubbing his head 
and looking sheepish enough. 

“ All right, men, let’s sit down and talk things 
over. Maybe we can save a fight yet,” said 
Big Jim. 

“ Look here, Mister, I don’t see why-come 
you have to butt in. We’re law-abidin’ miners 
out here to locate a claim, an’ you ain’t got no 
right — ’ ’ 

“ Maybe we’re out here to locate a claim, too. 
It happens that the claim you’re standing on 
right now belongs to my brother. Yes, Shorty, 
I saw through your lies quick enough. Maybe 
the man you nursed and who gave you the 


154 The Boss of the Big Borns 

nugget wasn’t my brother, but just the same this 
claim right here is filed in his name.” 

“ I didn’t tell you no lies,” answered Shorty 
sullenly. “ The feller what come to me was 
just like I said he was.” 

“ You saw Shorty in Mineral City? ” I asked, 
and Jim nodded. “ Tell me something Jim, was 
your brother kind of tall and slim? ” 

“ Not when I last saw him,” he replied, an 
eager light in his eyes. “ He was heavier than 
I, but not quite so tall. Why? ” 

“ With a scar on his forehead, left side? ” I 
went on, ignoring his question. 

“ No, not that I know of. What’s the idea? ” 
“ Look inside the cabin! ” 

Jim stepped inside, followed by all of us. 
There was a minute’s pause, then one broken, 
halting word — 

“ Tom! ” 

I stepped back out of the cabin, and after a 
little hesitation the other two followed me. Big 
Jim remained inside all of half an hour. WTien 
he came out his face was calm but his eyes 
looked misty and his voice was strangely hushecL 


The Midnight Burial 


155 


“ Tod, it's my poor brother, Tom. I have 
found him — too late! ” 

I had no word to say, but I came over and 
gripped his hand and we walked a short dis¬ 
tance away from the other two. Neither of us 
spoke until we were well out of hearing of 
Shorty and Rawlins. Then Jim broke the long 
silence, his voice natural again. 

li I have expected it ever since I heard Shorty’s 
story.” 

“I didn’t think you had seen him — didn’t 
think you’d have had time— ” 

“ He lit right out to warn Rawlins soon’s I 
was out of sight. I tried not to show my hand, 
but it was pretty hard to get him to open up 
without telling him a few things. He beat me 
here because he knew the way, while I had to 
guess it — until I ran across his trail at least.” 
“ How about my trail? ” I asked. 

“ Saw it but didn’t follow. I knew you’d be 
all right. I could look you up in case you didn’t 
locate the mine. And then I wasn’t dead sure 
it was yours. I left you back in camp, you know. 
But it wasn’t my brother who gave Shorty the 


156 The Boss of the Big Horns 

nugget. That fact nearly threw me off the track. 
It was Tom’s partner, a fellow named 
Barnes— ” 

“ A ticket-of-leave chap from England,” I 
interrupted. 

“ What do you know about ticket-o’-leave 
men? ” asked Jim quizzically. 

“I have a letter your brother wrote — or 
rather there’s a letter back yonder in the cabin 
that he wrote just before he died.” 

“ Oh, I see. And it tells about this partner? ” 
Jim asked the question rather sharply, it struck 
me at the time, and I later had reason to recall 
this circumstance. I can’t explain why I an¬ 
swered as I did just then; perhaps it was an¬ 
other of my wild guesses that was to come true. 
Perhaps it was because, way down in my heart, 
I was sure that Big Jim had read that letter 
when he was alone in the cabin. 

“ I wouldn’t call him a partner! ” I said. 

“ There’s a riddle for a fellow if he had 
time to puzzle it out, but we haven’t. By this 
time our two friends back there will have re¬ 
loaded their six-guns. So that’s a condition we 


The Midnight Burial 157 

will have to face. Not that it worries me. The 
mine is filed in Tom’s name, and all I will have 
to do will be to establish my identity and take 
it over and develop it. In the meantime you 
can be panning it out and come in for a share. 7 * 
“ You’re paying me a salary now, Jim.” 

“ That doesn’t cover gold mining, which you 
will find is no Sunday school picnic even if our 
friends don’t give us any further trouble. We’ll 
discuss this share business later. Just now I 
expect we’d better hike back and see what terms 
Rawlins w T ants to make.” 

So we went back, on the alert for any sus¬ 
picious move but outwardly expecting no trouble. 
Rawlins had been in the cabin. He was just 
emerging from the door as we came in sight, no 
doubt warned of our approach by Shorty, who 
was on the watch. 

“ Well, men,” began Jim casually, “ what 
say? Do we bury the hatchet and part friends? ” 
“ Me an’ Shorty’s been talkin’ it over,” 
drawled Rawlins, his tone as careless as Jim’s 
had been. “ We just about decided to stake our 
own claims. I been in the game long enough 


158 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

to figger that all the gold ain’t in one shovelfull, 
an’ we got jist as much right to pan as you or 
anybody else.” 

“ True enough,” agreed Jim. “ I might men¬ 
tion, however, that there’s three claims staked 
here, and filed on, too; the one above and the 
one below discovery. Tod Vance here holds one 
of them and I hold the other, though,” with a 
laugh, “ for the life of me I couldn’t tell you 
which is which.” 

“ All right, buddie, set yer stakes an’ start 
pannin’. We’re stakin’ on each side of you, 
above an’ below. What’s yer handle, by the 
way? ” 

“ People who know me call me Jim. Raily’s 
the rest of it.” 

“ Feller in yonder’s name’s Barnes,” re¬ 
marked Shorty, jerking his thumb toward the 
cabin. 

“ Huh! ” exclaimed Jim and Rawlins to¬ 
gether. As for me, I looked at the three of 
them in turn, vaguely feeling that something 
unexpected had happened. 

“ Sure,” went on Shorty glibly. “ I seen 


The Midnight Burial 159 

him before. He’s the feller what tol’ me about 
this place. Plumb off his nut, he was, but he 
knew his own name all right.” 

44 You never tol’ me his name was Barnes! ” 
This from Rawlins. 

“ If I tol’ you all I know we’d both need more 
lives’n a cat. Shorty knows.” 

“ Undoubtedly,” dryly from Jim. “ On the 
other hand, it’s barely possible that I know my 
own brother. His partner’s name was Barnes — 
Jim Barnes. He lit out after they’d had a 
fight.” 

I could barely repress a start. Now I knew 
he had read the letter. Of course he had a right 
to do so, but why had he pretended not to have 
read it? 

“ Name’s Barnes,” repeated Shorty. “ ToP 
me so hisself. Pardner’s name’s Raily. Raily 
puts it over on him an files the claim in his own 
name. Barnes’s out of his head, sets out after 
him. That’s when he comes to my shack. All 
he can talk about’s the mine an’ the doctor an’ 
the dirty trick what’s been played on him.” 

“ How long ago was this? ” I demanded, 


160 The Boss of the Big Horns 

feeling that I had a right to settle some of the 
doubts and suspicions that were rising in my 
mind. 

“ What month’s this — July? It was in May 
then, about the middle part, mebbe. This feller’s 
pardner yer brother, you say? ” 

Jim’s face was a study, to me and to the other 
two. He paused a moment before replying. 

“ I hope you get this story straight, Shorty, 
and you, too, Thatch. The dead man there in 
the cabin is — was — my brother, Tom Raily. 
His partner was Barnes. They evidently had 
had some quarrel. How it started I don’t know, 
but I can imagine. They weren’t really partners; 
Tom had the other fellow hired to go along. 
Naturally he didn’t expect to share whatever 
they found. The other fellow did, after they 
found something worth while. Up to that time 
he’d been satisfied to draw his wages and call 
it enough, but the sight of the rich pannings was 
too much for him. 

“ What does he do then? I can tell you, or 
just about. He hikes out at dead of night to 
file the claim in his own name. Tom misses him, 


The Midnight Burial 


161 


suspects the truth and sets out after him. 
Barnes ’ horse slips and in the fall Barnes gets 
hurt, so he sneaks back to the cabin, finding Tom 
gone. Tom, of course, goes on and files on the 
claim. 

“ Then Tom comes back, but he is a sick man. 
They patch up their quarrel and proceed to pan 
gold. There’s a cave-in and Tom is hurt. He 
sends Barnes for the doctor, but Barnes turns 
traitor and comes back without one. Tom gets 
worse, delirious, way out of his head. Sets out 
for the doctor himself, loses his way, a good 
many times maybe, and stumbles into Shorty’s 
shack. 

“ Shorty, not realizing how delirious the man’s 
mind is, misunderstands his ravings of Barnes 
and his wrongs and thinks that he is Barnes 
himself. Simple enough, isn’t it? ” 

“ Simple enough,” agreed Rawlins. 

Shorty said nothing, but his silence was elo¬ 
quent. He was unconvinced. Strangely enough, 
I, too, was not so sure. Like Shorty, I held my 
peace. I wanted to ask Jim why he had not stuck 
to the story that was told in that disconnected 


162 The Boss of the Big Horns 

letter. Yes, there were a good many questions I 
wanted to ask Big Jim, but I could not bring 
myself to utter them. 

That was a queer sort of day to me. On the 
surface all was friendliness among the four of 
us. Yet Shorty, I knew, harbored a very definite 
suspicion of some sort against Jim. Rawlins, 
I was just as sure, was watching my partner as 
a cat does a mouse; and I — well, of them all 
I was probably the most miserable, for I did 
not know just what I did think. 

Somehow we worried through the day, eating 
together at dusk, having set our stakes and 
made preparations to begin real mining in the 
morning. As we finished eating, Rawlins re¬ 
marked : 

“ Sorry, Raily, but your cabin’s on my claim.” 

“ You can have it,” said Jim shortly. “I’ll 
take out what I want in the morning. Want to 
sleep in there to-night! 99 

Rawlins grunted a denial. 

“ Tod and I will sleep just outside, if you 
don’t mind,” said Jim. “ To-morrow we’ll 
straighten up things — or at least I will.” 


The Midnight Burial 163 

I wondered if that last remark had reference 
to the body of his brother. Then I wondered 
why, before all else, the body had not been 
buried. I tried to figure out the answer, but 
finally gave it up. “ Jim's afraid to,” I de¬ 
cided. “ Afraid to — but why! Rawlins knows; 
I don't.” 

I slept fitfully, waking with a start a dozen 
times. I had a feeling that someone was wait¬ 
ing for me to fall sound asleep. Who! Jim! 
Rawlins! Shorty I dismissed as not counting. 
About midnight I sat up, wide awake. I knew 
without looking that Jim was gone. I lay there 
awaiting his return, thankful that the moon was 
high and bright enough to give me a clear view 
of all about me. 

I lay there perhaps half an hour, almost dozing 
off two or three times, instantly forcing my eyes 
open again. Then came a cautious footstep. 
Jim was returning. He came close beside me, 
regarding me intently for a long minute. As¬ 
sured that I had not awakened, he slipped over 
to his blankets and crawled in. In a little while 
his peaceful breathing told me that he was sound 


164 The Boss of the Big Horns 

asleep, so I, too, settled back, and soon slept 

When I awoke it was still misty-gray, but Jim 
was np and bad the fire snapping briskly. As 
I sat up be glanced around, grinned and re¬ 
marked lightly, “ Your snoring kept tbe sun 
from showing up; it’s overdue an hour. There 
she shows now.” 

“ Night noises kept me from resting,” I 
grunted. 

“ Oh! ” he said sharply, “ did you hear them, 
too? ” 

“ Them? Who? ” 

Jim jerked his head toward where Rawlins 
and Thatch had made their camp, then grimly 
added: “ They carried off the body last night! ” 

“ Buried it? ” 

“ Ask them, if you want to hear them deny it. 
I followed them but they lost me.” 

I made no comment, although there was a 
question on the tip of my tongue. A smear of 
wet clay was on Jim’s bare forearm. It had 
not been there the night before for it was not 
yet wholly dry. 

Into my mind came a flood of questions, none 


The Midnight Burial 


165 


easy to answer, some filling me with doubt, and 
some of them were even accusing. Why had Jim 
followed Rawlins and Shorty alone? Why hadn’t 
he called me? 

I knew that he had a great confidence in his 
own ability to do a thing alone, yet of late he 
had been willing enough to call on me to help. 
Now, in his darkest hour, when men none too 
friendly were making off with the body of his 
brother, he had — by his own word — followed 
them alone. They had lost him; yet on his arm 
was a smear of wet clay. 

“ Jim Raily,” I put the query to myself, “ did 
you get that clay mark following — or digging?” 


CHAPTER X 


BIG JIM’S DABK DAT 

“ Where’s Rawlins? ” I asked Shorty a half 
honr later as I passed their camp on the way 
to our diggings. 

“ Mineral City,” grunted Shorty, busy over a 
skillet of bacon. “ File on our claims. Back 
to-morrow, mebbe.” 

“ What were you two doing last night at 
the cabin? ” I demanded abruptly. 

Shorty stared blankly. “ Cabin? ” he re¬ 
peated. 

“ Sure. About midnight.” 

“ Don’t walk in my sleep,” he snorted. “ One 
thing at a time Shorty does. Sleep at night; 
think in daytime. ’Swhy people think I'm 
queer.” 

Somehow I had no thought of doubting 
Shorty’s sincerity. It had been Rawlins then — 
or had it? I pondered this last as I walked to 
166 


167 


Big Jim’s Dark Day 

where our shovels lay, two of them, the prop¬ 
erty of the man who had died and the one who 
had fled. I picked up mine mechanically, then 
stared in sudden realization. I had learned one 
lesson while living at home; all tools must be 
put away clean. 

There was clay — yellow clay — on my shovel. 

“ I wish,” I said with significant emphasis as 
Jim came to the claim a few minutes later, “ I 
wish that you would use your own shovel after 
this. I like to start in clean with mine in the 
morning. ’’ 

I did not look at him as I spoke, but I was 
sure that he heard me, although he made no 
answer. That was the beginning of a work day 
that was as miserable as any I have ever spent. 
I have always taken joy in work; in the play of 
muscles bent to a hard task. There was none of 
that in this day. Suspicion and joy cannot live 
in the same mind, and I was suspicious. There 
were many things I could not understand, and 
I was greatly puzzled over Jim. 

Of Shorty we saw nothing at all. We had 
brought our supplies to the diggings, piling them 




168 The Boss of the Big Horns 

in the opening of a shaft that had been started 
in the hillside, timbered roughly against a 
cave-in. We built a fireplace of great stones and 
cooked dinner and supper there. It was well 
after dark, Jim’s pipe lighting his face as he 
puffed idly, when he arose abruptly. 

“ Guess I’ll have a look-see at our neighbors 
before we turn in.” 

“ Make it singular and you’ll have it.” 

“ Huh? ” 

‘ i Only one neighbor. Bawlins went to Mineral 
City last night to file on the claims.” 

‘ 1 Last night! ’ ’ 

“ Just after dark,” I said, casually as I 
could, waiting tensely for his answer. Jim said 
not a word, but strode off into the darkness. 

“ Jim, old pal,” I groaned inwardly, “ I’m 
trying hard to keep on believing in you, but 
hang it all, man, you sure do give my faith 
some awful jolts.” 

When Jim came back, an hour later, I had 
rolled in the blankets and pretended to be asleep. 
He came over and stood above me a long minute. 
In the flickering light of our fire I could see him 


169 


Big Jim’s Dark Day 

solemnly shake his head, then slouch over to 
where his blankets were already unrolled. He 
bunched them up again, then sat down on the 
heap, leaning his chin in his hand, elbow on 
knees. As long as I lay awake he was still 
sitting there. 

I was awakened by the babble of excited voices. 
Still half asleep, I recognized the high-pitched 
tones of Shorty, the angry drawl of Eawlins, and 
the bumble of a voice that was new to my ear. 
My eyes still shut, I listened for the voice of 
Jim. When it came, the words were so startling 
that I jumped to my feet in one bound. 

“ You can’t arrest me on such wild evidence 
as that! ” 

“ You seem to forget” — it was the bumble 
voice, and the speaker was a well-fed looking 
person whose smooth face seemed to express good 
nature and self-satisfaction at the same time — 
“ you seem to forget that you are already ar¬ 
rested. The wildness of the evidence is no con¬ 
cern of mine. I’m only the sheriff, you know, 
and we have judges and juries for the purpose 
of considering the evidence. I have here a 


170 The Boss of the Big Horns 

warrant, duly executed, charging you with being 
one Tom Raily, the murderer of one James 
Barnes. The mere fact that you claim to be 
James Raily, and insist that the deceased is 
your brother, has, so far as my warrant goes, 
no hearing on the case. Neither has the fact 
that the body has disappeared. ’ 9 

Needless to say, I was dumfounded. Jim — 
or was he Jim — a murderer? In the light of 
that great question all minor questions seemed 
to disappear. I looked at the man standing 
there before his three accusers, straight and tall, 
clear-eyed as a child. Somehow, the mere sight 
of him told me the idea was absurd, inspired me 
with a new confidence, banished all my earlier 
doubts and suspicions. 

In the very foxiness of the half-wit Shorty; 
in the evil triumph of the gambler Rawlins; in 
the smug cocksureness of the sheriff, I saw posi¬ 
tive proof of the innocence of my friend. My 
friend now for always, for I could never again 
doubt him. 

“ Jim,” I said, “ tell him where you saw 
these two crooks hide your brother’s body.” 


171 


Big Jim's Da/rk Lay 

“ If I did, buddie, they’d swear they saw me 
hide it there, and there are two of them. There’s 
just one fortunate thing about it. Shorty, 
where’d you lose that nugget you showed Raw¬ 
lins in order to get him to come to the mine ? ’ ’ 

A crafty look came over Shorty’s face. 
“ Don’t know where I lost it, but I know durned 
well I missed it jist atter we et supper with you 
last night. I tol’ Thatch about it at the time. 
Buried it with the corpse, did ye? ” 

“ I saw it fall out of your pocket as you 
stooped over the body there at the grave,” coldly 
answered Jim. “ Fortunately it is a simple mat¬ 
ter for me to prove my identity. There are my 
passport papers — I am a Britisher, you know 
— and my correspondence is rather ample. 
While I have with me no letters from my 
brother, except his last, which we found under 
his dead hands, I at least have this young man, 
who has been with me every day for the last 
two months.” 

“ Barnes’s been dead over two months,” mum¬ 
bled Shorty. 

“ It’s a lie! ” exclaimed Jim. “ If you hadn’t 


172 The Boss of the Big Horns 

buried the body that fact could easily have been 
determined.’ ’ 

“ All right, men, let’s save the oratory for 
the trial,” said the sheriff. “ I’ve had a hard, 
quick trip up here and the altitude gets on my 
nerves. If you’re ready, Raily, we’ll get back to 
civilization instanter.” 

“ Will you let me have a word in private with 
this young man? ” 

“ In private? Dunno as I will. Have all the 
words you want though while I’m listening. So 
shoot, but shoot fast.” 

16 Tod, how much of this stuff do you believe ? ’ ’ 
asked Jim, turning to me. 

“ Not a word — now. I’ll admit that I thought 
something wasn’t exactly straight, but nothing 
like this. I’m for you, Jim, all the way through, 
and here’s my hand on it.” 

“ Good boy! ” and he caught my hand in a 
vigorous clasp, so vigorous that I winced as 
something hard was pressed into my palm. 
“ Never fear, lad, this mess will soon be cleared 
up. I have nothing to say to you in private that 
I can’t say in public, though I admit that I 


Big Jim’s Dark Day 173 

like to pick my public. Here’s what I want you 
to do: 

“ Stick around here and keep an eye on our 
claims. Rawlins here is the most notorious 
claim-jumper in the States; keep your gun handy. 
Shorty is square as a die, but just now he’s tied 
up with a crook. He won’t stand for any raw 
stuff, though. He honestly thinks I am what he 
thinks I am. You stay here until the trial; I’ll 
send you word when to come, or you can watch 
Rawlins. He couldn’t stay away from it any 
more than a fly could stay away from a dead hog. 

“ That’s all, Tod, except stay by the old ship 
while she weathers the storm. You’ve got to 
hold the tiller now for awhile, but at least I’ve 
given you a chart of the course.” 

That last undoubtedly was pure Greek to the 
three listeners, but that hard something in my 
hand told me the meaning of his “ chart ” at 
least. 

“ Rawlins,” commanded the sheriff, “ I leave 
you and Shorty in charge of the evidence. As 
soon as I reach Mineral City I’ll send back 
some deputies to make a search for the body. I 


174 The Boss of the Big Horns 

want yon to give them all the help in yonr 
power; I’ll see that yon are properly rewarded. 
Ready? ” to Jim. “ All right, let’s meander.” 

“ Remember, Jim, I’m trusting you,” I called 
by way of good-bye. 

“ I’m trusting you too, Tod,” and then the 
two moved up the banks of the ravine. Shortly 
after they had disappeared the whinny of a 
horse told that the sheriff did not intend to re¬ 
duce his fat by walking. 

“ Who is the human balloon? ” I asked Raw¬ 
lins. 

“ Sheriff of Rock County; name’s Douglass. 
He’s a fathead, all right, but he’s got the right 
party this time. We’ve got the goods on that 
friend o’ yourn an’ if he don’t swing fer it I 
miss my guess, eh Shorty? ” 

I merely snorted. 

“ Them fine words you two swapped ain’t goin’ 
to have much weight with the twelve good men 
an’ true,” taunted Rawlins. 

“ Dry up, you croaker. If the rope had its 
deserts you’d have swung a long while ago. If 
you’re out here to mine you’d better get busy 


Big Jim’s Dark Day 175 

with the pick and shovel. Your night shoveling 
won’t get you much.” 

With that I picked up my own tools and set 
to work, though I could not resist a parting 
word. “ After you leave, this place is private 
property, and the * keep out 9 sign works night 
and day.” 

A growl from Rawlins and a squawk from 
Shorty was the only reply as the two moved 
away. I was glad they left quickly, for my 
knowledge of mining was extremely limited and 
I wanted no spectators. Then, too, there was 
another and more urgent reason. There was 
that hard something that Jim had pressed into 
my palm. 

When the two were safely out of sight I 
pulled it from my pocket. It was a letter, but 
not from Jim. Twice I read it through before 
I could place it, and then it was the handwriting 
that I recognized. Here it is: 

“ picture of his mother. You will be glad 
to know that I saved the strain. The sire comes 
of the best breed in north Scotland. Queer to 
find it here in the States. Poor old Flossie; 


176 The Boss of the Big Horns 

she followed i mony a weary mile,’ as the old 
song used to say. And now the pup, though 
he’s well-nigh past that, bids fair to nose my 
heels another generation. Oh, well, ’tis a hope 
I have that some day I ’ll bring him ‘ hame to ye ’ 
to take the place of the one I never meant should 
follow me away. He’s a dream of a dog, and for 
tracking there’s no better. He’ll pen anything 
that wears hide or horns, and he’s true to the 
death. If anything happens to me I want you to 
have him.” 

I must confess that my eyes were wet when I 
had finished reading. Here I had been thinking 
myself a part of some grand plot, some des¬ 
perate scheme to foil our enemies. I had 
thought the stealthily passed message a bit of 
incriminating evidence or a clew to lead us to 
safety, only to discover that it was only a bit of 
sentiment! Sentiment in an hour filled with plot 
and counter-plot! 

Then I began thinking hard. Jim must have 
had a reason for slipping it to me so furtively, 
or for giving it to me at all. I wondered where 
he had found it. In the cabin, probably. Of 


177 


Big Jim’s Dark Day 

course it had been written by the dead man, ad¬ 
dressed to Jim, and it referred to the dog, Nip — 
as the dead man had called him — Boss, as I 
had renamed him. 

In the end I concluded that Jim had taken 
this way of convincing me that the dead man 
really was his brother, trusting that I would 
recognize the handwriting as the same. That 
gave me another idea. Perhaps he had wanted 
me to hunt for the dog. “ True to the death,’’ 
the letter had said. Well, death had come, and 
no doubt Jim had spent a great deal of time in 
wondering what had become of the dog. 

That was what made the misty feeling come to 
my eyes. Jim was taking this way of asking 
me to find for him the one living thing that had 
loved his brother. 

Did you ever, in the midst of some worrying 
problem, have the answer come to you with the 
clearness and the suddenness of a flash of light¬ 
ning? With some such suddenness came the 
answer to my problem — mine and Jim’s. Not 
all the answer right then, but at least the idea 
that was to lead to the answer. 


178 The Boss of the Big Horns 

My first step was to put away my tools, pack 
up such food as we had salvaged from the cabin, 
hide my own rifle, for which I had no more am¬ 
munition, and pick up the one I had found in 
the cabin. With that under my arm I walked 
toward where I expected to find the two men. 
I had some hopes of finding the cabin unguarded, 
so that I might make a thorough search for more 
evidence, but the first step toward the door 
brought a warning shout from Rawlins. 

“ Keep away from there, kid. Pm in charge 
of that place till the deputies come, an’ I don’t 
want no tamperin’ with the contents.” 

“ Oh, all right,” I answered carelessly, walk¬ 
ing toward them. 

“ Where away, all dolled up with a stolen 
rifle! ” jeered Rawlins. 

“ I’d tell you I was going to town if I thought 
you’d believe me. As it is, I don’t know that 
it’s any of your business.” 

“ It may be afore you get through with this 
case,” observed Rawlins dryly. “ I expect 
you’d better make yore get-away afore the 
dep’ties gits here, which won’t be afore mornin’.” 


147 


The Midnight Burial 

“ Big talk, kid.” Rawlins still, but he had 
moved to a different quarter. “ I don’t know 
yer game, nor yore pardner’s game, but yore 
first victim in there is goin’ to be yore last far’s 
I’m consarned.” 

‘ 6 Three minutes gone! ” 

“ Y’ought to git a job in the movies; you talk 
like a phonygraph. Better come on out afore we 
git real peaved. It’ll be lots easier fur ye.” 

“ Four minutes gone! ” 

There was no answer. I waited a little while, 
then, just for the sake of provoking an outburst 
from Rawlins, “ Time’s up. Look out! ” 

Still silence. I heard vague rustlings without, 
but could not place them. For a moment I had 
a wild idea that they were setting the cabin on 
fire, but I concluded they would hardly do that, 
at least not until other methods had failed. 

A shadow flitted across the tiny hole Rawlins 
had made. Bing! I fired, not with any real 
idea of hitting anything, but just to show them 
I was on the alert and meant business. 

Bang! A return shot flattened itself against 
the logs a few feet from w T here I crouched. 


148 The Boss of the Big Horns 

Through the door, I figured. Wish I had it shut. 
Better try to shut it. Ouch — that was a close 
one. Maybe I’d better stay right where I am. 
If they come much closer to me I may have to 
pot one of them yet. 

The firing had ceased. I waited a full ten 
minutes for further action and the suspense was 
beginning to tell on my nerves. Finally I got 
up enough courage to crawl out from behind the 
table and slip along the wall until I was back 
of the door. A quick fling and it was slammed 
shut. I waited a moment, figuring my action 
might draw their fire, then jumped to my feet 
and slammed the heavy bar in place. 

Whew! That made me feel a bit more secure. 
I made a tour of inspection, finding in each 
wall of the room a chink hole that gave me a 
good view of the landscape. Not a soul in sight. 
I pondered this a little, then decided that it was 
only a ruse to get me to show myself. “Not 
so easy, my hearties. I’m going to bide in here 
till my reenforcements come. Then we’ll give 
you a real battle. In the meantime, they say an 
army fights on its stomach, and this army’s got 


The Midnight Burial 


149 


a full sized one that’s crying for grub. Let’s 
see what the larder holds.” 

I opened a can of beans, eating them cold and 
making no complaint because of that. As I 
finished the last spoonful a little piece of bark 
fell in my dish. 

“ Now what’s the idea of that? ” I questioned 
as I picked it up and inspected it. “ Where 
there’s a bark there should be a bite. Wonder if 
my ambitious friends plan calling on me by way 
of the roof.” 

I looked up. A tiny patch of blue sky greeted 
me. “ Huh,” I grunted. “ Must be a squirrel 
up there. Guess I’d^ better see if I can bring 
him down.” 

I held my rifle stock between my knees and 
pointing the barrel straight upward, pulled the 
trigger. Wow! what a scrambling followed. 

“ I say, Kawlins,” I jeered, “ when I asked 
you to drop in on me some time I didn’t mean 
for you to take it literally.” 

I heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like 
profanity, then all was silence once more, to be 
broken finally by a low, tense whisper: “ Keep 


150 The Boss of the Big Horns 

-down off that roof, you fool! Hell pot you like 
a pigeon.’’ This from Rawlins. 

I admit I should have been on my guard, but 
I did look up, only to realize the next instant 
that Rawlins had put one over on me, for at 
that moment came a sharp command: 

“ Reach for the sky, youngster, an’ drop that 
popgun doin’ it! ” came from the window, and 
I turned to find myself staring into the muzzle 
of Rawlins’ six-gun. “ Now you open that door, 
an’ just keep yore paws off of that rifle.” 

In a flash I realized that here was my chance. 
Once I was at the door, Rawlins could not see 
me. True, my rifle was in plain view and under 
the table, but just a few feet from the door 
was the dead man’s rifle. While I was fumbling 
nt the bar with one hand I could be reaching for 
the rifle with the other. Rawlins, expecting me 
to come out unarmed, would be caught unawares. 
With him in my power it would be an easy mat¬ 
ter to dictate terms to Shorty. 

All this in the space of a second as I stepped 
toward the door. I reached out, even before I 
took hold of the bar, and caught up the rifle. 


The Midnight Burial 151 

Then I made a great pretense of trying to lift 
the bar. 

“ It sticks,” I called. *‘ Shove in on the do,or.” 

“ Shove on the door, Shorty, whilst I watch 
the window. I think it’s just a dodge to get a 
chance to grab back at his rifle.” 

Shorty shoved, the while I thought rapidly. 
If I could lay out Shorty, quickly, then turn my 
rifle on Rawlins, I would be in clover. But 
how? A jerk at the bar that raised it an inch. 
I might jerk the door open suddenly while he 
was bearing against it, hit him with the butt of 
the gun as he went sailing past. Another jerk 
at the bar; it was nearly clear. “ Now, Shorty,” 
I called, “ Push! ” and I raised the bar full and 
jerked in on the door. 

It worked as planned. In flew the door, Shorty 
following it, completely unbalanced. My rifle 
followed the circle he made, catching him flush 
on the back of the head. Not so hard, really, 
but harder than I had intended. Down he went 
in a heap. Then I turned to confront Rawlins. 

“ Pretty neat, kid, hut you still got me to 
reckon with.” 


152 The Boss of the Big Horns 

He had me covered, and my rifle was still 
wrong-end-to. 

“ Yeh, I got you. Just drop that gun, too, 
an’ we’ll talk things over, with me doin’ most o’ 
the talkin’. All right, Shorty, you kin wake up 
now. Them ain’t birds you hear singin’. Here’s 
the bird made you lissen to his chirpin’. Get a 
rope an’ we’ll tie his wings.” 

“ Hold on, Thatch,” it was a new voice . 
“ Maybe you’ve heard the old saying about 
birds of a feather flocking together. Here’s an 
old crow that’s got a little bone to pick with 
you about this wing tying business.” 

It was Big Jim! We had all been so engrossed 
in our little party that we had not noticed his 
approach. Now he came leisurely forward, his 
automatic held carelessly in his hand but very 
evidently ready for business at the first sus- 
picious move on Rawlins’ part. Rawlins no 
longer had me covered, having half turned to¬ 
ward Big Jim. On the other hand I had taken 
advantage of his turning away to pick up my 
rifle and point it toward Shorty, though he did 
not appear to need much covering, being satis- 


The Midnight Burial 153 

fied to squat on the floor and rub the back of 
his head. 

“ What say, Rawlins? Ready to park your 
guns? 

“ Here, Tod, take his shooting irons — well, 
all right, pick up Shorty’s first. Now, Rawlins, 
you’re next. Bring ’em over here Tod, and we’ll 
take out their stingers.” 

He broke the guns and took out the cartridges, 
then handed them back to their owners, Shorty 
having come out of the cabin, rubbing his head 
and looking sheepish enough. 

“ All right, men, let’s sit down and talk things 
over. Maybe we can save a fight yet,” said 
Big Jim. 

“ Look here, Mister, I don’t see why-come 
you have to butt in. We’re law-abidin’ miners 
out here to locate a claim, an’ you ain’t got no 
right — ’ ’ 

“ Maybe we’re out here to locate a claim, too. 
It happens that the claim you’re standing on 
right now belongs to my brother. Yes, Shorty, 
I saw through your lies quick enough. Maybe 
the man you nursed and who gave you the 


154 The Boss of the Big Horns 

nugget wasn’t my brother, but just the same this 
claim right here is filed in his name.” 

“ I didn’t tell you no lies,” answered Shorty 
sullenly. u The feller what come to me was 
just like I said he was.” 

“ You saw Shorty in Mineral City? ” I asked, 
and Jim nodded. “ Tell me something Jim, was 
your brother kind of tall and slim? ” 

i 1 Not when I last saw him,” he replied, an 
eager light in his eyes. “ He was heavier than 
I, but not quite so tall. Why? ” 

“ With a scar on his forehead, left side? ” I 
went on, ignoring his question. 

“ No, not that I know of. What’s the idea? ” 
“ Look inside the cabin! ” 

Jim stepped inside, followed by all of us. 
There was a minute’s pause, then one broken, 
halting word — 

“ Tom! ” 

I stepped back out of the cabin, and after a 
little hesitation the other two followed me. Big 
Jim remained inside all of half an hour. WTien 
he came out his face was calm but his eyes 
looked misty and his voice was strangely hushed. 


The Midnight Burial 155 

“ Tod, it’s my poor brother, Tom. I have 
found him — too late! ” 

I had no word to say, but I came over and 
gripped his hand and we walked a short dis¬ 
tance away from the other two. Neither of ns 
spoke until we were well out of hearing of 
Shorty and Eawlins. Then Jim broke the long 
silence, his voice natural again. 

Ai I have expected it ever since I heard Shorty’s 
story.’ ’ 

“ I didn’t think you had seen him — didn’t 
think you’d have had time — ” 

1 i He lit right out to warn Rawlins soon’s I 
was out of sight. I tried not to show my hand, 
but it was pretty hard to get him to open up 
without telling him a few things. He beat me 
here because he knew the way, while I had to 
guess it — until I ran across his trail at least.” 

“ How about my trail? ” I asked. 

“ Saw it but didn’t follow. I knew you’d be 
all right. I could look you up in case you didn’t 
locate the mine. And then I wasn’t dead sure 
it was yours. I left you back in camp, you know. 
But it wasn’t my brother who gave Shorty the 


156 The Boss of the Big Horns 

nugget. That fact nearly threw me off the track. 
It was Tom’s partner, a fellow named 
Barnes — ” 

“ A ticket-of-leave chap from England,” I 
interrupted. 

“ What do you know about ticket-o ’-leave 
men? ” asked Jim quizzically. 

“I have a letter your brother wrote — or 
rather there’s a letter back yonder in the cabin 
that he wrote just before he died.” 

“ Oh, I see. And it tells about this partner? ” 
Jim asked the question rather sharply, it struck 
me at the time, and I later had reason to recall 
this circumstance. I can’t explain why I an¬ 
swered as I did just then; perhaps it was an¬ 

other of my wild guesses that was to come true. 
Perhaps it was because, way down in my heart, 
I was sure that Big Jim had read that letter 
when he was alone in the cabin. 

I wouldn’t call him a partner! ” I said. 

“ There’s a riddle for a fellow if he had 

time to puzzle it out, but we haven’t. By this 

time our two friends back there will have re¬ 
loaded their six-guns. So that’s a condition we 


The Midnight Burial 157 

will have to face. Not that it worries me. The 
mine is filed in Tom’s name, and all I will have 
to do will be to establish my identity and take 
it over and develop it. In the meantime you 
can be panning it out and come in for a share. ” 
“ You’re paying me a salary now, Jim.” 

“ That doesn’t cover gold mining, which you 
will find is no Sunday school picnic even if our 
friends don’t give us any further trouble. We’ll 
discuss this share business later. Just now I 
expect we’d better hike back and see what terms 
Rawlins wants to make.” 

So we went back, on the alert for any sus¬ 
picious move but outwardly expecting no trouble. 
Rawlins had been in the cabin. He was just 
emerging from the door as we came in sight, no 
doubt warned of our approach by Shorty, who 
was on the watch. 

“ Well, men,” began Jim casually, “ what 
say? Do we bury the hatchet and part friends? ” 
“ Me an’ Shorty’s been talkin’ it over,” 
drawled Rawlins, his tone as careless as Jim’s 
had been. “ We just about decided to stake our 
own claims. I been in the game long enough 


158 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

to figger that all the gold ain’t in one shovelful!, 
an’ we got jist as much right to pan as you or 
anybody else.” 

“ True enough,” agreed Jim. “ I might men¬ 
tion, however, that there ’s three claims staked 
here, and filed on, too; the one above and the 
one below discovery. Tod Vance here holds one 
of them and I hold the other, though,” with a 
laugh, “ for the life of me I couldn’t tell you 
which is which.” 

“ All right, buddie, set yer stakes an’ start 
pannin’. We’re stakin’ on each side of you, 
above an’ below. What’s yer handle, by the 
way? ” 

“ People who know me call me Jim. Eaily’s 
the rest of it.” 

“ Feller in yonder’s name’s Barnes,” re¬ 
marked Shorty, jerking his thumb toward the 
cabin. 

“Huh!” exclaimed Jim and Eawlins to¬ 
gether. As for me, I looked at the three of 
them in turn, vaguely feeling that something 
unexpected had happened. 

“ Sure,” went on Shorty glibly. 


“ I seen 


The Midnight Burial 159 

him before. He’s the feller what tol’ me about 
this place. Plumb off his nut, he was, but he 
knew his own name all right/’ 

“ You never toP me his name was Barnes! ” 
This from Rawlins. 

“ If I toP you all I know we’d both need more 
lives hi a cat. Shorty knows / 9 

“ Undoubtedly,” dryly from Jim. “ On the 
other hand, it’s barely possible that I know my 
own brother. His partner’s name was Barnes — 
Jim Barnes. He lit out after they’d had a 
fight.” 

I could barely repress a start. Now I knew 
he had read the letter. Of course he had a right 
to do so, but why had he pretended not to have 
read it? 

“ Name’s Barnes,” repeated Shorty. “ ToP 
me so hisself. Pardner’s name’s Raily. Raily 
puts it over on him an files the claim in his own 
name. Barnes’s out of his head, sets out after 
him. That’s when he comes to my shack. All 
he can talk about’s the mine an’ the doctor an’ 
the dirty trick what’s been played on him.” 

“ How long ago was this? ” I demanded, 


160 The Boss of the Big Horns 

feeling that I had a right to settle some of the 
doubts and suspicions that were rising in my 
mind. 

“ What month’s this — July? It was in May 
then, about the middle part, mebbe. This feller’s 
pardner yer brother, you say? ” 

Jim’s face was a study, to me and to the other 
two. He paused a moment before replying. 

“ I hope you get this story straight, Shorty, 
and you, too, Thatch. The dead man there in 
the cabin is — was — my brother, Tom Raily. 
His partner was Barnes. They evidently had 
had some quarrel. How it started I don’t know, 
but I can imagine. They weren’t really partners; 
Tom had the other fellow hired to go along. 
Naturally he didn’t expect to share whatever 
they found. The other fellow did, after they 
found something worth while. Up to that time 
he’d been satisfied to draw his wages and call 
it enough, but the sight of the rich pannings was 
too much for him. 

“ What does he do then? I can tell you, or 
just about. He hikes out at dead of night to 
file the claim in his own name. Tom misses him, 


The Midnight Burial 


161 


suspects the truth and sets out after him. 
Barnes ’ horse slips and in the fall Barnes gets 
hurt, so he sneaks back to the cabin, finding Tom 
gone. Tom, of course, goes on and files on the 
claim. 

“ Then Tom comes back, but he is a sick man. 
They patch up their quarrel and proceed to pan 
gold. There’s a cave-in and Tom is hurt. He 
sends Barnes for the doctor, but Barnes turns 
traitor and comes back without one. Tom gets 
worse, delirious, way out of his head. Sets out 
for the doctor himself, loses his way, a good 
many times maybe, and stumbles into Shorty’s 
shack. 

“ Shorty, not realizing how delirious the man’s 
mind is, misunderstands his ravings of Barnes 
and his wrongs and thinks that he is Barnes 
himself. Simple enough, isn’t it? ” 

“ Simple enough,” agreed Kawlins. 

Shorty said nothing, but his silence was elo¬ 
quent. He was unconvinced. Strangely enough, 
I, too, was not so sure. Like Shorty, I held my 
peace. I wanted to ask Jim why he had not stuck 
to the story that was told in that disconnected 


162 The Boss of the Big Horns 

letter. Yes, there were a good many questions I 
wanted to ask Big Jim, but I could not bring 
myself to utter them. 

That was a queer sort of day to me. On the 
surface all was friendliness among the four of 
us. Yet Shorty, I knew, harbored a very definite 
suspicion of some sort against Jim. Rawlins, 
I was just as sure, was watching my partner as 
a cat does a mouse; and I — well, of them all 
I was probably the most miserable, for I did 
not know just what I did think. 

Somehow we worried through the day, eating 
together at dusk, having set our stakes and 
made preparations to begin real mining in the 
morning. As we finished eating, Rawlins re¬ 
marked : 

“ Sorry, Raily, but your cabin’s on my claim.” 

“ You can have it,” said Jim shortly. “ I’ll 
take out what I want in the morning. Want to 
sleep in there to-night? ” 

Rawlins grunted a denial. 

“ Tod and I will sleep just outside, if you 
don’t mind,” said Jim. “ To-morrow we’ll 
straighten up things — or at least I will.” 


A Strmge Adventure 195 

Here, too, would be plenty of small game, though 
I hesitated at the thought of doing much shoot¬ 
ing. Still, I had no desire to establish a record 
in long-distance fasting, and there was the pros¬ 
pect that my search might extend into a matter 
of weeks. 

To my right a deep ravine ran down toward 
the valley, its end lost in the heavier woods of 
the lower country. I decided to follow this 
ravine, and after an hour’s easy going I struck 
a well defined trail, and in the damp spots I could 
make out the sharp prints of sheep hoofs. While 
I realized that there might be a hundred different 
herds of bighorns in these mountains, with the 
chances one hundred to one against me, never¬ 
theless the feeling persisted that this was my 
own particular bunch, led by the big buck and 
herded by Boss. 

Yet I had to admit that the big buck had evi¬ 
dently jumped his job. That gave me a prob¬ 
lem to chew on. Perhaps he and Boss had had 
another test of authority. I chuckled over this, 
for in my mind there could be no question of the 
outcome of such a struggle. Boss was crafty, 


196 The Boss of the Big Horns 

no doubt of that, and I shook my head in doubt 
as I thought of my own coming contest with this 
powerful and dangerous fighter. Would he 
still be the Boss, or would I? 

I had another job on my hands before this 
test of wits was to come. With my thoughts on 
the future I had tramped far down the ravine, 
quite unmindful of the change in the nature of 
the land. My path lay between two immense 
boulders, their smooth sides stretching a full 
fifty feet above my head. The path between 
them was so narrow that I could easily touch 
both sides as I moved along. Looking down the 
path between these great natural gate posts I 
saw a little clear space, then an unbroken wall 
of smooth stone rose abruptly to dizzy heights. 
At the time I did not know that this pathway of 
mine led into a small box canyon, with sheer 
precipitious walls, its only outlet being the nar¬ 
row path between the boulders. 

As I stepped through this natural gateway I 
turned about to admire the rugged beauty of 
the towering rocks that bordered this narrow 
path. Standing thus, I heard a snort of defi- 


A Strange Adventwre 


197 


ance and turned just in time to receive a ter¬ 
rific blow amidships, and in a twinkling I was 
hurled a full twenty feet back along the path 
between the boulders. 

Startled and stunned, I hastily arose to face 
my unknown enemy. There at the entrance of 
the path, head lowered and eyes flashing defiance, 
stood the big buck! 

In the first assault my rifle had been knocked 
clear of my grasp, and I stood as one paralyzed, 
unable to gather my wits about me to make 
the best of a strange and ticklish situation. In¬ 
deed, I could hardly believe my eyes, for who 
ever heard of a man being charged by a bighorn? 

There he stood, ready for another attack. He 
was between me and the entrance to the canyon, 
and I dared not turn to flee down the path I 
had come. I knew his tactics, and I wanted 
to have the advantage of facing the attack. That 
moment he charged again. 

Turning to one side I took the blow upon the 
hip, and again I went flying through the air, 
landing with a dull thud another ten feet down 
the path. 


198 The Boss of the Big Horns 

Then I began to realize that the buck wanted 
out of that canyon; that I had come upon him 
in an unguarded moment and his fear at finding 
himself trapped gave him a determination to 
fight his way out. I was perfectly willing for 
him to get out, but I did not relish the idea of 
being butted all the way back up that narrow 
defile. As the buck stood facing me, gathering 
his courage for another attack, a plan flashed 
into my mind. If he wanted out, by George, 
I was willing to help all I could. 

As he lowered his head for another charge 
I gathered myself together for a mighty leap. 
On he came, ten feet, five, three — I put all 
my strength into the leap in an effort to jump 
high over his head and land behind him. To 
this day I can see those needle like horns below 
me. He was quick, and just as I cleared him 
he gave his head a toss, just enough to catch 
my flying feet and send me sprawling end over 
end like a ten-pin. I did alight behind him, 
but not in the manner planned, and I was con¬ 
siderably shaken up. 

I sat up in time to see his flying heels dis- 


A Strange Adventure 199 

appear around one of the boulders. He was 
not standing upon the manner of his going. 

“ Beat it,” I shouted. “ Beat it, you old 
battering-ram. Don’t let me keep you any 
longer. I’m no hog for punishment. Beat it 
back to Boss and tell him that I’m hot on his 
trail.” 

Dusting oft my clothes and rubbing my black 
and blue spots, I picked up my rifle and started 
back down the path, determined to see the place, 
but on guard lest some other wild battering-ram 
should come charging out. 

Small wonder that the old warrior had de¬ 
termined to fight his way out. It was a little 
pocket shaped like a gourd, and the walls were 
so steep and smooth that even a mountain goat 
could not hope to climb out. No doubt the 
old fellow had gone in there to get a few mouth¬ 
fuls of the tender grass growing in the little 
basin, and hearing my approach and realizing 
that he was trapped, had thereupon determined 
to break past this new enemy or die in the 
attempt. 

Turning back from this blind trail, I soon 


200 The Boss of the Big Horns 

flushed a mountain grouse from her nest and 
found three eggs of unquestionable freshness. 
Next I spotted a squirrel high in a fir tree, and 
a well-aimed shot brought him tumbling. Just 
before dark I came upon a noisy little brook and 
I felt sure that its quieter pools would provide 
fish for my breakfast. 

Well content, I decided to camp by its clear 
waters, and on squirrel haunch, eggs and the 
last strip of my mouldy bacon, I made a splendid 
meal. Then I threw three big dead logs across 
the fire, rolled myself in my blankets, and was 
soon lost to the world of hills and boulders, 
towering trees and rushing waters. 

When I awoke it was still dark. My fire was 
still burning, snapping and crackling in a con¬ 
tented sort of way. All was quiet and I 
drowsily wondered what had wakened me. I 
have always been an early riser, but not the 
kind that gets up and goes hunting daylight 
with a lantern. There was not a disturbing note 
in the night noises and all was serene in camp. 
I looked at my watch — two-thirty; much too 
early to roll out of my warm blankets. 


A Strange Adventure 201 

So I turned over on my other ear and was 
fast dropping off into profound slumber when 
once more I sat bolt upright. This time I knew 
what had disturbed me. It was the sound I had 
traveled many a weary mile to hear — the hunt¬ 
ing bark of a lone dog! 

Of course it might be any dog; there was no 
certainty that that full-throated bark came from 
Boss, yet down in my heart was a feeling of 
absolute conviction. Gone on the instant was 
every thought of sleep, every last cobweb of 
drowsiness. For now that I had found my dog, 
a still greater problem confronted me. How 
was I to catch him? 

Ever stop to figure out a thing like that; how 
you’d capture alive a dog as wild as any four- 
foot, and you without a trap of any kind? Ever 
since I had started on the trail my mind had 
been busy with schemes, only to discard each 
one as fast as I made it. At the last I had de¬ 
cided to bide my time and trust to circumstances 
and to the luck that seemed to have followed 
me ever since I had first entered the Rockies. 

Just now there was no time to be lost in 


202 The Boss of the Big Horns 

speculation. The dog was easily a mile away 
and his hark indicated that he was on a hunt. 
He might be traveling fast and far; his herd 
might be many an hour’s journey east or north 
or south or west. It was up to me to forget 
that there was such a thing as breakfast — aside 
from cold squirrel — forget there were trout in 
the brook that sang at my feet. 

I rolled my blankets, packed grub and cook 
things in one motion. Then, pack on back, gun 
under my left arm and a hunk of squirrel in 
my right hand, I stumbled away through the 
darkness, following a bark that was stilled. 

The sun rose and flooded the valley with light 
before I had covered the distance I had figured 
lay between me and Boss. I was mighty glad of 
the daylight, because I had a hope of finding 
some faint trace of the fugitive — a fugitive who 
did not know he was being chased. I had marked 
the direction well, and as soon as the sun was 
up I needed no compass to hold me to my 
course. Another northward mile was added to 
the one I had allowed and still no telltale sign. 
I was beginning to debate the advisability of 


A Strange Adventure 203 

circling when a chance glance at the sky brought 
me my first real clew. 

High against the blue, little more than a 
speck, a lone buzzard was sailing. Not circling 
as when, not a feather fluttering, they soar in 
great sweeping arcs, but in a smaller spiral 
that led ever downward. That sky scavenger, 
I decided after the first scrutiny, had sighted 
food. 

The buzzard does not kill his own prey, so it 
was easy to guess that something else had made 
a kill and after eating his fill had left hide, bones 
and scraps of flesh for the next comer. Of 
course it might have been a timber wolf, or 
even my old friend, the mountain lion. I was 
sure of one thing; whatever it was had met a 
violent death, for most creatures of the wild 
“ die with their boots on.” 

I had no intention of allowing the buzzard 
to beat me to the spot. By now I could tell 
pretty well where the center of his circle would 
fall, and I hurried to reach it before Mr. Feathers 
got there. I had great respect for that same 
bird when I located the object of his slow circle; 


204 


The Boss of the Big Horns 


respect at least for the keenness of his vision. 
For from his dizzy height — a mile at least — 
he had caught sight of a tiny bit of fur, the last 
remains of the pest of western mountain camp¬ 
ers — one Paddy Pack Rat. 

Evidently he had not been a very toothsome 
morsel for his captor, or else that one had not 
been very hungry, for other bits were scattered 
about. Nor had the fellow been scared away 
before finishing his meal, as a beaten-down bed 
in the grass gave evidence. I felt of it but 
it had long been cold; deserted, probably, about 
the time I had heard that first bark. I was 
more certain than ever that it had been Boss 
I had heard; Boss who had made an untidy 
meal of the pack rat; Boss who had lain in the 
grassy nest. 

Which way had he gone? That was my 
next job. North and south the going was ex¬ 
tremely difficult. The western course lay down 
hill; to the east was an easy slope leading to 
a ridge. Putting myself in the dog’s place, 
I reasoned it out that he had gone eastward. 
He had left his herd, he had hunted, he had 


A Strange Adventwe 


205 


killed and eaten, then rested. Then, being an 
intelligent dog, he had gone to the highest nearby 
point to look the country over. 

That sounded like good logic to me, and my 
first stop at the top of the ridge proved that it 
was correct dog logic. There, on a little bare 
spot, was a half-gnawed bone; another relic of 
poor Paddy. 

“ Now which way? ” I asked myself. Then, 
as if in answer, dimmed by distance but still too 
distinct to be questioned, came a long bark, 
many times repeated. 

‘ 1 Good Boss! ’ 9 I exclaimed. * ‘ I’ve got your 
number now and I’m on your trail for good.” 

For in that bark I recognized, farm boy that 
I was, the herding call of the born sheep dog. 
Boss was no longer on the hunt; he was back 
at his main job, herding sheep. 


CHAPTEB XIII 


THE BATTLE OF THE BUCKS 

“ Half an hour for breakfast, and no grub,” 
I exclaimed aloud. u Now where is that fried 
trout I promised my tummy for this morning? 
I could eat a bluejay roasted in a fire made of 
his own feathers. Guess I’ll just take up a 
notch in my belt and chew that for breakfast. 
I wouldn’t dare risk a shot if I did see any¬ 
thing to shoot. Somehow, I have a feeling that 
to-day is going to he the big day.” 

With this thought I began the long climb down 
the ridge. I passed several sheep trails, but a 
brief inspection convinced me that they were old 
ones which had not been used recently. I had 
descended far into the basin before I finally 
felt satisfied that I had hit the real one. 

It was not an easy trail to follow, for the 
ground was strewn with many boulders and the 
sheep apparently preferred to leap from boulder 
206 


207 


The Battle of the Bucks 

to boulder rather than to feed along the level 
ground. As for Boss, he left no trace of his 
passing. Still, by a nipped bush here, by a hoof 
print there, by the faint but unmistakable herd 
traces, I was able to follow with fair speed; 
soon convinced by the growing freshness of the 
signs that I was gaining. 

It was noon before the sight of a nibbling 
gray shape sent my pulses leaping. One, two, 
three, four of them I counted, and then a clump 
of low bushes shut off my view. I decided to 
circle, hoping to be able to get far enough 
ahead to count the bunch as they passed; hoping, 
too, to catch a sight of the object of my long 
hunt — the Boss of the Bighorns. 

I swung out a quarter of a mile, noting with 
satisfaction that the group of bushes was fairly 
small and that at the far edge it gave way to 
a little clump of trees. If I could make their 
shelter ahead of the herd I could shin up one 
of the tallest trees and have a perfect view of 
the bush region. 

I was well out of breath and feeling weak in 
the mid-section when I darted behind the first 


208 The Boss of the Big Horns 

of the trees. I wanted to drop to the ground 
and get back my wind, but there was no time 
to be lost. I could rest in the tree-top. I 
picked one at the very edge of the clump, a 
long-needled pine whose heavy branches would 
hide me completely. I stopped long enough to 
sling my rifle across my back, then, wrapping 
my egs about the trunk, I began the slow climb 
to the first branch, all of twenty feet from the 
ground. At last I reached the sturdy lower 
limb and drew myself up, puffing from the ex¬ 
perience. 

After a short breathing spell, I felt that I 
could climb a little higher. The climbing was 
comparatively easy now, and after another twenty 
feet I found a comfortable seat in the crotch 
of two giant limbs. I was well hidden here but 
at the same time I had a good view of the 
landscape. 

For a long time there was nothing to see but 
low bushes waving in the wind. Half an hour 
passed and I was just beginning to doubt the 
wisdom of my move when out into an open space 
stalked a monster bighorn. I had to rub my 


209 


The Battle of the Bucks 

eyes twice before I could convince myself that 
this was not my buck, so alike were they in 
size, in shape, and in the regal sweep of rugged 
horns. 

Perhaps even then I might have been doubtful 
had it not been for a most convincing proof. 
Hardly had the big fellow disappeared into the 
bushes again when his place was occupied by 
another buck, equally majestic in bearing. Even 
at this distance I was sure that this one was 
my old friend. 

Two bucks in one herd! 

A young one and an old one, I began to specu¬ 
late. I was a front seat observer of one of the 
tragedies of the wild; the old master of the 
herd was about to be displaced by one of his 
offspring. Not to-day, perhaps. They might 
clash, and the older, wiser warrior be the victor; 
but some day the young buck, learning his lesson 
of final victory through his early defeats, would 
win the leadership of the herd. Some day young 
blood would tell, and the old leader would either 
submit or be driven off to lonesome wandering. 
Unless I had guessed wrong, that wandering had 


210 The Boss of the Big Horns 

already began. That was why he had been away 
from the herd when I had first seen him the day 
before. 

There they were again, a little closer this time, 
the young buck ahead, the older following him. 
Now the young buck had turned, his head held 
high. The old buck appeared to be quietly feed¬ 
ing, but I felt sure that no move of the other was 
escaping him. 

It was a magnificent place for a battle, espe¬ 
cially from my viewpoint, for the ground was 
level and free of bushes and they were close 
enough so that I could see perfectly. There 
could be no doubt that a battle was impending. 
The young buck was only too willing to try 
conclusions, and the old fellow, from the way he 
followed his young rival, showed that he, too, 
was spoiling for a fight. “ Oh, well,” said I 
virtuously, “ if they must fight, I’m glad I’m 
here to see it.” 

The beginning came with unexpected sudden¬ 
ness. Throwing up his head with a bleat that 
sounded just a bit quavery and frightened, the 
old warrior stiffened his legs and stood ready 


The Battle of the Bucks 211 

to meet a charge. I had been watching him and 
*not the young buck, and so was a bit mystified 
by this maneuver, but not so an instant later. 

The two met head-on, with a crash that could 
he heard all through the woods. It was as if 
two battering rams had collided full tilt. The 
impact sent both of them sprawling, but the 
youngster was the first on his feet and ready to 
renew hostilities. 

“ He’ll get him! ” I exclaimed, my tone al¬ 
most a groan. Strange as it may seem, my sym¬ 
pathies were all with the old fellow. 

The end was not yet. The old buck’s apparent 
unreadiness was merely strategy, as the young¬ 
ster found when, eager for a quick victory, he 
came dashing in. The old buck swerved and 
came in at the shoulder, sending the other roll¬ 
ing. It was his turn now to follow up the 
advantage, and he did so like an old general. 

It was a full five minutes, and he had taken 
a world of punishment, before the younger 
animal was able to square himself away and 
once more meet his enemy horn to horn. They 
were at close quarters now and it was only a 


212 The Boss of the Big Horns 

matter of pushing, with no chance to deal a 
knock-out blow. In this the old buck was the 
master. He was the stronger of the two when 
it came to a stiff-kneed, horn to horn tussle, and 
he made his opponent give ground until at the 
last he broke and fled, bleating, into the bushes. 
The old buck had regained a temporary hold on 
his leadership, and the youngster had “run away 
to fight another day.” 

During the fight I had lost all sense of secrecy. 
The battle over, I became aware of a strange sit¬ 
uation. Out of the bushes, from all directions, had 
come the rest of the herd. It was evident they had 
not been watching the fight, nor were they inter¬ 
ested in the victor. They were watching me! 

Spread out below me were some fifteen big¬ 
horn sheep, and there between me and the herd 
was their guardian — Boss of the Bighorns. 

The sheep did not appear particularly alarmed; 
they seemed more curious than anything else. 
Probably I was the first man they had ever 
seen; certainly the first they had ever seen up 
a tree. I wondered what they would do if I 
should slide down. 


213 


The Battle of the Backs 

Easy enough to find out. Down I slid and 
when I hit the grounl and looked about not a 
bighorn was in sight. All about was the crash¬ 
ing of bushes as they fled, each with his own idea 
of safety and his own notion of the place to 
find it. As for Boss, no telling where he had 
gone. 

“ I sure tipped the coffee-pot then,” I ad¬ 
mitted ruefully, i ‘ but they had seen me any¬ 
way. Best thing I can do now is to climb back 
up the tree and see if I can locate them and 
watch for them to come together again.” 

This time I left my pack and rifle at the base 
of the tree and I found climbing much easier. 
I climbed all the way to the dizzy top, and from 
there I found that I could see all edges of the 
bush district. It was not many minutes before 
I saw first one sheep, then another, appear at 
the far edge, till the whole herd, even the two 
rival bucks, had gathered together. In a moment, 
led by the old buck and guarded in the rear by 
Boss, they moved slowly across a little hundred 
yard strip of open mesa and soon were lost to 
sight among the boulders. 


214 The Boss of the Big Horns 

“ All right,’’ I chuckled. “ I’ll be close be¬ 
hind you before long, but just now I have a 
pressing engagement with my stomach. These 
bushes ought to yield something in fur or 
feathers; if not, then this hunt is going to end 
right suddenly through starvation.” 

Fortunately, a foolish young rabbit had failed 
to be very much alarmed by the stampede, and 
sitting unconcernedly on his haunches, made an 
easy shot at less than thirty yards. “ Now we’ll 
eat,” I declared enthusiastically, dropping pack 
and rifle where the rabbit lay and setting about 
the building of a quick fire. I soon had the 
rabbit dressed and cooking to a delicate brown, 
barely resisting the temptation to try the raw 
tender flesh. I made up for the delay a short 
while later, stuffing myself till I had to let my 
belt out the notch I had taken up that morning. 

Having satisfied my hunger, once more the 
trail beckoned. It was no trick to find it, for 
I had marked well the spot where the herd had 
entered the boulder country, and from then on 
their path was as plain as a pike-staff. After a 
little I was following it by general direction 


215 


The Battle of the Bucks 

alone. They were traveling fast, not stopping 
to feed. Boss was taking them to man-free 
localities, and that meant higher, rougher ground* 
I felt sure that before night they would be away 
up on some inaccessible peak. 

I missed my guess there, but not much. 

Along toward dusk I found them on the craggy 
slope of a boulder-strewn mountain whose crest 
seemed to rest in the clouds. No path was dis¬ 
cernible, and no human being could have made 
his way farther upward without a rope and a 
friend, and even then the conquering of that 
peak would be a feat to talk about. 

The bighorns appeared to be over their fright 
and were now browsing about, with no great 
desire to go farther up the forbidding climb. 
For this I was exceedingly thankful. Although 
the wind was in my favor I used all caution in 
my climb to the top of a ravine-scarred cliff, 
hoping for a view of the whole herd, but espe¬ 
cially wishing for a glimpse of Boss. He was 
nowhere visible. 

The habits of dogs and sheep are not alike. 
I knew that the bighorns, if they were anything 


216 The Boss of the Big Horns 

like their domestic kin, would soon lie down and 
drowse until nine or ten o’clock; while the dog, 
like as not, had left his herd to the guard of 
the old buck and was already on the quest of 
his dinner. 

I dared not get any closer to the herd, and 
yet I knew that at this distance I had no chance 
of locating Boss if he happened to be taking 
his evening nap. Here was a delicate situation. 
I do not know what I should have done had not 
my question been answered for me in an unex¬ 
pected way. 

I had been watching one of the bucks — which 
one I could not tell in the growing dusk. I 
noticed that he suddenly shied to one side, as 
if he had been scared. Nor did he return to 
the spot he had just vacated, although there was 
plainly some tempting shrubbery right there. 
On the other hand, neither did he run farther. 

I looked closer. Was that a moss-grown rock 
standing there, or was it — yes, it was a hole; 
a tiny cave opening. Well, perhaps not a cave, 
but undoubtedly there was a hole or a shelf of 
some sort that made that blacker shadow. It 


217 


The Battle of the Bucks 

might he the mouth of a den. That would explain 
the buck’s fright, but it would not explain his 
staying so close to danger, if danger really lurked 
there. Still, the closer I looked the surer I was 
of my eyes. There was a black opening of some 
sort, three feet or more across. 

Now the buck would not be afraid of an empty 
hole, that was obvious. So there must be some¬ 
thing inside. A wild animal! Not a dangerous 
one, at any rate, or the buck would not remain 
there quietly feeding. Just one other guess, and 
that guess became a surety when one of the 
other sheep, a ewe with a young lamb at her side, 
came close to the opening and grazed there with¬ 
out fear and without any apparent molestation. 

No wild animal of prey was in that den, if 
den it was. I began to feel very sure that it was 
the night home of Boss. That was why the 
buck had darted away; why the mother sheep 
was allowed to feed there without Boss’ threaten¬ 
ing growl. 

This conclusion brought my big problem home 
to me with pressing insistence. Now that I had 
found him, how was I going to capture him! 


218 The Boss of the Big Horns 

Dodging the full answer as long as I could, I 
decided that the first part of the problem was 
to get closer to the den. It had to be done 
carefully. One false move now, and the trail 
would lengthen again with lightning speed. Let 
one keen-nosed bighorn get wind of me, let one 
sharp ear catch the rattle of a tiny stone, the 
noise of a stumble, and away would go the whole 
herd and my glorious chance with it. 

I cast off my pack and placed my rifle beside 
it. No matter what method I used in trying to 
make the capture, the rifle would only be in the 
way. On hands and knees, my gray flannel shirt 
and khaki breeches serving to give me something 
of the appearance of a sheep, I crept along, 
cautious from the very start. It was a long trip 
down that rough slope and up again, with many 
pieces of treacherous climbing before I halted at 
last, a scant hundred yards from that yawning 
hole. The wind being in my face, I knew that I 
had only to guard against sound. With the 
coming night darkness spread over the entire 
face of the cliff and I could no longer see the 
exact mouth of the hole. 


219 


The Battle of the Bucks 

However, I had marked the place well in my 
mind and I could have made my way blind¬ 
folded. On hands and knees I crept along, each 
move a studied one, each breath a conscious, 
silent part of my progress. Fifty yards left, and 
still no alarm. I waited a patient moment to 
steady my nerves. 

Forward again, my caution doubled, if that 
were possible. Only a few feet more. The sheep 
had moved on a little way and the cave was 
unguarded. I discovered that it was a smaller 
opening than I had earlier thought, not over 
three feet wide and scarcely that high. I flat¬ 
tened myself on the ground and slowly wormed 
my body toward its yawning mouth. Now that 
I was within striking distance I began to won¬ 
der if I had the nerve to carry through the 
plan that I had developed as I crawled along. 

The dog was within the den; of that I was 
more certain than ever. I had no weapons, not 
even a club. Could I go in, with bare hands, 
and subdue that big brute of a dog, made savage 
and fearless by wild, free living? 

Could I even dare to make the try? There 


220 The Boss of the Big Horns 

wasn’t much time left in which to dodge the 
answer. I heard a stir within the hole. The 
dog was coming out. The answer to my ques¬ 
tioning came to me in a breathless rush. 

I sprang to my feet with a shout that was as 
wild as the spot itself, and with arms outspread, 
flung myself at the black mouth of the cave. 


CHAPTER XIV 


A FIGHT IN THE DARK 

Not a sound from within. I half recoiled, 
perplexed but still too unnerved to feel anything 
like relief. In that instant I hardly knew whether 
I was afraid Boss wasn’t in there or afraid that 
he was. I gave vent to my mixed feelings in 
another loud whoop. 

This time I received an answer; a low, men¬ 
acing growl from within the cave. So Boss was 
at home after all! 

Now what? Should I follow my first plan, or 
was it too dangerous? Just how much nerve 
did I have, after all? A dog is no poor 
antagonist; especially when a fellow gets down 
on his own level, hands and knees, and goes 
back to nature’s way of fighting. My bare hands 
against his armed jaws; surely the odds were 
against me. 

All right; we’d reduce them. Carefully guard- 
221 


222 


The Boss of the Big Horns 

ing the opening, I sat back on my haunches and 
peeled off my shirt. Catching it by collar and 
tail and stretching it wide, I crouched low and 
began to shuffle my way into the narrow hole. 
At the very first my heart failed me. My throat 
was unprotected; one leap from the dog and he 
would tear and choke the life out of me. It was 
not a pleasant thought. The cold sweat broke 
out on me, but for some reason my knees and 
elbows continued to carry me forward, despite 
the fear that lurked in my heart. 

A deep snarl, a rush — and the fight was on! 

My first feeling was one of relief, partly be¬ 
cause he had not found my throat at the on¬ 
slaught, but chiefly because at that first signal 
of real danger all thought of the fancied dangers 
disappeared and the blood pumped back through 
my veins and courage flowed back into my soul. 

What boy doesn’t love a real honest-to-good- 
ness fight? I am not one of the hopeless 
minority. I will admit that I prefer to be able 
to see my foe, but at that I enjoyed every second 
of that struggle there in the dark; enjoyed it 
in spite of claws that ripped and tore my flesh, 


A Fight in the Dark 


223 


and eager jaws that snapped at my throat every 
unguarded instant. 

In that first attack I had dropped my shirt, 
all thought of strategy lost in the urge of battle. 
All of five minutes we struggled there, seeking 
holds and releasing them when found; twisting, 
turning, taking and giving many a grievous blow 
and bite. It was no pretty fight there in that 
narrow, cramped hole; the dog’s hot breath in 
my face, his jaws dripping foam and blood on 
my aching hands and arms. 

Then when he had nipped my wrist in a 
snap that was hard to dislodge, I thought of 
my shirt. Not much of a weapon, it might seem, 
but the best possible one in a combat of this 
kind. 

I caught it up in my left hand, feeling with 
my right for the dog. He had backed away 
for the moment, but I found him a little easier 
than I had expected. Strong jaws and sharp 
teeth suddenly crunched into my bare forearm 
with a grip too tight for me to jerk away. I 
grappled with him, my left arm circling his 
powerful neck in a twisting, squeezing clutch 


224 The Boss of the Big Horns 

that carried all my strength. Slowly the dog’s 
head came around until it was a question of 
letting go or taking a broken neck. 

Boss was a crafty fighter and he let go to 
make a lunge for my unprotected throat. For¬ 
tunately my chin was in the way. I felt the 
blood spurt hot over my breast from a deep 
gash, but was thankful it was no worse. Strik¬ 
ing out blindly I managed to fend him off, then 
crouched back as far as I could, my shirt once 
more in hand and ready for use. I knew that 
he would renew the attack, inspired by the dam¬ 
age he had done me. I would have the advan¬ 
tage by being on the defensive. Minute after 
minute passed without any movement on his 
part, so once more I made ready to reopen 
hostilities. 

The first cautious motion brought a growl that 
showed a spirit by no means lessened. I 
growled in reply, which brought further out¬ 
bursts from him, till the little hole echoed and 
rang with our noisy defiance. When the out¬ 
landish din was at its highest I dashed forward 
as fast as all-fours would allow. This time I 


A Fight in the Dark 


225 


fared better. Boss snapped at me but missed. 
Before he could repeat I had closed in on him. 
Into his champing jaws I thrust my shirt, jam¬ 
ming it as far between his teeth as I could, then 
winding it around and around his head. By 
chance the sleeves dangled loose when my gag 
was all used up, and with their length I took 
a turn around his throat, then tied the ends in 
a hasty but secure knot. 

“ Now, you man-eater,” I gasped, “ I’ll just 
drag you out into the fresh air. Between dust 
and blood my lungs are about to burst. I’ve 
heard of knock-down-and-drag-out fights, but this 
is the first I’ve ever engaged in — and the last, 
if you ask me. You’ve put your mark on me 
for life, I expect, but I’ve got you now, dead 
to rights, Boss, old boy.” 

Perhaps that may sound a bit like trying to 
rub it in. I confess that just then I felt as 
if I had a right to crow a little. Catching hold 
of the big fellow, who was still struggling despite 
the choking mass over his head, I tugged and 
jerked till at last I had him outside the hole. 
There I quickly threw him down on his side and 


226 The Boss of the Big Horns 

proceeded to make the gag less uncomfortable 
but more secure. Now I began to wish for 
my pack. In it I bad a strap from which I 
could make a collar and a sort of muzzle. There 
was no danger of his getting his head free 
while I went after the strap, but so long as 
his legs were loose I dared not chance his dash¬ 
ing blindly into the darkness. 

So I knelt, my back to him, reached around 
and caught his hind feet and pulled him up on 
my shoulder. A strong swing upward and across, 
and I had caught his forepaws in my left hand, 
drawing them up until the dog’s body lay across 
my shoulders and curved around my neck. I 
had carried many a new-born calf to the barn 
that way. 

Strangely enough, Boss made no great protest 
at this mode of travel, though I was in constant 
fear that his jaws would work free and make 
short work of me. In less than a jiffy we made 
the trip safely and I dumped him beside my 
pack. I opened my little roll of supplies and 
took out a short, stout piece of cord. With it 
I tied both hind feet together, then forefeet like- 


A Fight in the Bark 227 

wise, bringing all four together and knotting 
the cord securely. 

“ Now, Boss, my boy, far be it from me to 
hurt you in any way, but I think we’ll just let 
you lie there while I build a fire. Then we can 
finish our job in the proper way, for I will need 
a little light so that I can turn the trick right. 
Because, confidentially now, one slip and away 
you’d go. Now that I’ve got you, I rather 
propose to keep you.” 

Fuel was plentiful and in short order I had 
a roaring big fire going. The pine branches 
made a splendid light, for all their hissing and 
sputtering, and I found that I could see well 
enough. I got the strap out of my pack and soon 
had a combination collar and muzzle which, while 
not exactly a thing of beauty, certainly looked 
substantial. 

The next thing was to get it on. I figured 
that the cord I had used in tying his feet would, 
if doubled, be sufficiently strong for a leash. 

“ All right, Boss, guess you can take my 
shirt off if you’re through using it; the night 
air is a bit chill to my sleeveless undies, espe- 


228 The Boss of the Big Horns 

daily when they’re soaked with gore. Let’s see 
what a good dog yon can be — when you’re hog- 
tied and thrown.” 

Boss had no idea of being a good dog. I 
felt mighty thankful for the fact that he was 
helpless as to feet, for his growls rose in in¬ 
tensity as I began to unwrap his jaws. When 
the last fold of gray flannel came from between 
his teeth I sprang back hastily and with good 
cause, for at that he missed my nose by a 
most uncomfortable margin. 

That lunge taught him that he was tied, and he 
at once lost all interest in me and turned his 
attention and his teeth to the rope that bound 
his feet. He would have made short work of 
the thin cord had he been able to put his un¬ 
divided efforts to the task, but in a moment he 
was busily engaged in trying to dodge the 
muzzle that I was just as busily trying to slip 
over his lunging head. 

It was a proud and happy moment when at 
last I succeeded in getting the awkward con¬ 
traption over his nose. Confident that he could 
not bite me, I landed on him in a heap and soon 


A Fight in the Dark 229 

had the collar fast about his throat. Then I 
stood back and gave him the once-over. 

“ If that won’t hold yon, nothing will, old 
boy. So I guess I’m the boss now and you’ll 
have to give up the name. Still, on second 
thought, I guess we’ll stick to it; it may help 
us to work out our little plan for the freeing 
of Big Jim. In the meanwhile I’ll just fix you 
up so you can’t gnaw at your foot ropes, and 
then we’ll turn in for the night. To-morrow, 
maybe, we’ll eat. A day’s hunting and feasting 
won’t do us any harm, and it may help us to get 
acquainted.” 

I slept the sleep of the just that night, nor 
did I awake until the sun was high and begin¬ 
ning to feel hot on my uncovered face. I woke 
up with the appetite of a bear. My first look 
was for the dog. He was still there and appar¬ 
ently asleep, but at my first movement he began 
to struggle and growl. 

“ Still full of the old pep, I see,” I remarked 
pleasantly. “ Well, old fellow, I think we’re 
going to be good friends — Oh, not right now,” 
as he made a snap for the hand I had reached 


230 The Boss of the Big Horns 

out toward him, “ but one of these fine days 
you’ll be eating out of that hand instead of 
trying to chew it up. Think it over while I go 
see if I can find us some breakfast.” 

That proved an easy matter, for a long-eared 
rabbit hopped out of some brush in a little valley, 
and the second shot brought him low. He was 
a tough old customer, I felt sure, but not so 
the next one that stopped to look me over from 
the crest of a hillock. I bowled him over the 
first pop. 

“ Guess that’ll hold us for a while,” I chuckled, 
as I picked him up and started for camp. Within 
a dozen steps I flushed a brush hen. Instead of 
flying, the hen ran clucking into the brush. I 
didn’t shoot her, but I did find her nest. Only 
three eggs there, so I felt sure they were fresh 
enough to be edible. 

“ Hello, Boss,” I called a moment later. “ See 
what I’ve brought you.” 

A growl was his only reply to my greeting, 
but I fancied that his tone was not quite so un¬ 
friendly as it had been. Perhaps he sniffed 
the game. Hunger is a great leveler, and a 


A Fight in the Dark 231 

man’s heart is not the only one that is reached 
by way of the stomach. 

In fact, we two became quite chatty over that 
breakfast, though I had to work my imagination 
overtime to fancy anything but hostility in the 
snarls and sniffs that met my attempts at friend¬ 
liness. After a little coaxing and long-distance 
petting by word of mouth, he condescended to 
eat, and at the last he even snapped the tiny 
morsels I offered him in my hand, though once 
he almost took a finger along with the meat. 

At least we had made some progress. I 
decided to camp there all day; an attempt to 
lead the dog — I had released his feet and put 
him on leash — prompted me to make the de¬ 
cision, even if the argument put up by my 
many aching wounds had not been enough. Per¬ 
haps by the next morning he would lead a little 
better, and I would not be so sore and stiff. 

So we spent the day in getting acquainted. 
It proved a tedious task, for just when I fancied 
I had made some progress the dog would turn 
on me as savagely as ever. It took a good deal 
of control to keep my own anger down, but I 


232 The Boss of the Big Horns 

realized that only patience and kindness would 
get the result I wanted. In time I got it. 

Slowly, and none too surely, I broke down the 
animal’s unfriendliness. He had been alone a 
long while, so long that he had forgotten the 
loneliness of the first weeks, and he had almost 
gone back to the wild. There was the merest 
shred of human liking to build on; a few months 
more and he would never have come back. But 
now it was just a matter of time and much 
patience. 

“ Boss, old fellow, you know I’m beginning 
to be right fond of you, but I doubt if anybody 
else ever will be. You look like a one-man dog 
to me, but you’re sure a dandy! ” 

Never have I seen a more splendid specimen. 
Big, broad, well wooled and richly colored, he 
stood like a champion of his kind; clean-limbed 
and clear eyed, a thoroughbred if ever there was 
one. I felt like congratulating myself every 
time I looked at him, which was often, for down 
deep in my heart I knew that he was my dog 
in every sense of the word. Nor would it be 
long, I felt sure, till he would think the same. 


233 


A Fight in the Dark 

Already he would look at me when I spoke to 
him, and I could walk close beside him without 
having him try to nip my legs. 

When we had shared our fourth meal, which 
was breakfast of the following morning, he ate 
his share from my hand — yes, and licked my 
fingers afterwards. 

“ So endeth the first lesson,’’ I quoted gravely. 
“ Guess we’re ready to hike, pal. I’ll just keep 
you on the leash, though. Not because I don’t 
trust you, old fellow, hut — well, I’ll just keep a 
hold on you. Ready to go! All right, we’re off. 
Our next stop is Mineral City.” 

Which in a manner of speaking it was, though 
we made many a pause to rest, to eat and to 
sleep. It was not so easy finding my way back 
as I had imagined. I knew my general direction, 
but it was hard work holding to it. The 
ravines had a trick of changing direction so 
gradually that a fellow didn’t notice it down 
where there was no sun showing to serve as a 
guide. Then when you climbed out again you 
were all at sea. Many a weary, weary mile we 
added to our journey, and many times our halt 


234 The Boss of the Big Horns 

found ns no closer to our destination than onr 
start had been. 

Still we stuck to it; correcting our course at 
every chance and ever striking into new country, 
so that we had change even when we did not 
have progress. It was near night of the fifth 
day when we had our first glimpse of civiliza¬ 
tion; a far-off light in a lonely cabin. 

I spent the night there, swapping yarns with 
a hermit prospector. Here I learned that my 
prediction concerning Boss had been a true one; 
he was a one-man dog. Old Skags, the pros¬ 
pector called himself, dared not venture closer 
than leash length of Boss, and then at his 
slightest move teeth were bared and Boss’ snarl 
was a thing to be feared. 

“ How far to Mineral City? ” Old Skags re¬ 
peated next morning as I was ready to shoulder 
my pack. “ Durned ef I know. ’Tain’t more’n 
a hunderd mile, I reckon, even ef you count in 
the humps, but it’ll sure keep you humpin’. 
The neardest way is some shorter, but it’s 
tougher. Don’t keer how tough? Huh! Time 
was I didn’t nuther. That way you ketch on 


A Fight in the Dark 


235 


down the valley to the old Piute trail. You’ll 
know it by the heap o’ stones whar they massa- 
creed some settlers ’way back. Foller the trail 
tell it branches, an’ take the leetle branch. It’ll 
peter out in a shake, but foller the gineral 
d’rection fur maybe a day an’ you’ll hit a 
wagon road. No wagon can go over it now but 
maybe you can ef that dog don’t bite off your 
legs before you git thar. It’ll take you straight 
in. Three days to make it, ef you don’t tucker 
out.” 

I didn’t. I reached Mineral City just before 
dark of the third day, and on that night, for 
the first time in months, I slept on a mattress 
and between sheets. Boss, plainly ill at ease 
in his new surroundings, alternately crouched 
beside the bed or over against the door, waking 
me up every little bit with his persistent whining. 

Each time, as I dropped back to sleep again, 
I would catch myself saying: 

“ Wonder if the crazy scheme’s going to 
work. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER XV 


BOSS SAVES HIS NAME 

It was the big day of the trial; the lawyers 
on both sides were ready for their closing argu¬ 
ments to the jury. Such was the news that 
greeted me next morning on the front page of 
the only newspaper that Mineral City boasted. 
I read the account eagerly, growing hot and cold 
by turns as I saw the thinly veiled insinuations 
of guilt. One thing was very evident; Big Jim’s 
lawyer was no friend of the editor. 

At the conclusion of the article there was a 
short history of the case, and judging from the 
account, things surely did look black for friend 
Jim. All the surrounding circumstances very 
clearly indicated that murder had been com¬ 
mitted. The body had been found, presumably 
hidden away by the accused, and there were two 
bullet wounds as the evident cause of death. 
Even Jim’s own evidence, the letter, tended to 
236 


Boss Saves His Name 


237 


prove that the partner of the dead man had 
been the one to fire the fatal shot or shots. 
Rawlins and Shorty of course stoutly main¬ 
tained that they had had nothing to do with the 
secreting of the body, and such testimony served 
to throw all the blame on Jim. The case had 
been rushed through with record speed; a credit, 
the paper declared, to the officials of Rock 
County. 

Now the whole case rested on one point. Was 
Big Jim the man he claimed to be, or was he 
really Tom Raily, the partner of the man he 
was charged with having murdered? What could 
Jim offer as evidence of the identity he claimed? 
Only documents which the prosecution charged 
were papers stolen from the effects of the dead 
man. He carried no citizenship papers, and he 
had lost his passport, which, with his photo¬ 
graph attached, would have been ample evidence. 
It looked as if the best his lawyer could do would 
be to enter a motion for a new trial. This would 
give him ample time to get help from across 
the water, but at best it would mean the con¬ 
tinued imprisonment of Big Jim. 


238 The Boss of the Big Horns 

At least that was the way it looked to me. 
u Providing/’ I said to myself as I chucked 
away the newspaper, “ providing my own little 
scheme doesn’t work, eh, Boss, old hoy? ” 

I confess that I was a bit pale and breathless 
as I listened to the opening remarks of the prose¬ 
cuting attorney. He struck me as being unneces¬ 
sarily bitter and that his attitude was inspired 
by something more than an honest zeal for 
justice. Perhaps not; this was my first and only 
attendance at a murder trial. 

As I sat there, sick and dismayed, nerving 
myself for the big attempt and finding it hard 
to keep down the great lump that persisted in 
rising in my throat, I felt more and more that 
I could never go through with my program; that 
my courage would fail me. 

I was a mere boy, and these were seasoned 
men. Probably I would be thrown out for at¬ 
tempting to disturb the court, or, worse still, 
bounced on the head with a big billy club and 
dragged off to a cell to meditate on my lack of 
sense. The judge had an unusually severe look. 
To gain courage I reasoned that I had seen few 


Boss Saves His Name 239 

judges, and none on the bench; maybe they all 
looked that way. 

Just when should I make the try? That was 
the question I kept asking myself. Each time 
the attorney cleared his throat or came to a 
pause at the end of one of his bursts of elo¬ 
quence I tried to rise in my seat, but each 
time the fiery orator resumed before the courage 
to speak had oozed into my heart. 

Then he stopped to take a drink. 

Almost before I knew it I was on my feet. A 
voice that I did not recognize as my own, shrill 
with nervous excitement, rose high above the 
buzz of the courtroom. 

“ Your honor! ” 

The judge increased the severity of his look. 

“What’s this? What’s this!” he demanded 
in harsh tones. 

I was afraid he would order me ejected with 
his next words, so I plunged right into my plea; 
in my stage-fright forgetting all the careful 
wording I had rehearsed so many times, remem¬ 
bering only the importance of my plea. 

“ Your honor,” I stammered, “ may I say a 


240 The Boss of the Big Horns 

few words that have a strong hearing on this 
case? I am probably the most important— ” 

u I object, your honor. 99 It was the prose¬ 
cuting attorney, who had stopped halfway in his 
drink. 

u Objection overruled,” said the judge, “ tem¬ 
porarily at least.” 

“ If this boy knows anything about the case, 
why didn’t he offer himself as a witness? ” 

“ I don’t know,” answered the judge wearily. 
“ Let’s ask him." 

“ I was in the mountains, two hundred 
miles — ” 

“ I object, your honor. This case has been 
irregular enough.” 

“ I’ll be responsible for the irregularity, Mr. 
Taggart. Let the boy tell his story. You can 
go ahead,” the judge said, turning to me. 
“ What have you to say? ” 

“ Your honor, the witness is not sworn. I 
protest against this irregularity,” again objected 
the state’s attorney. 

“I’ll cite you for contempt of court if you 
interrupt again, Mr. Taggart. Now, boy, tell 


Boss Saves His Name 241 

your story as briefly as possible — if your wind 
bolds out.” 

I bad been gulping pretty bard, I will admit, 
but I did not thank bis honor for calling atten¬ 
tion to my scared condition. Right then and 
there I decided that what I had mistaken for 
sympathy for me was really dislike for the 
prosecuting attorney. 

“ I should have been called as a witness in 
this case, and I would have offered myself at 
once if I had not been on the trail of the most 
important clew in this case. Besides, I did not 
know that the trial would begin so soon. 

“ My name is Vance, Tod Vance, and I have 
been with the prisoner as his hunting partner 
for the last six weeks. His name is Jim Rally, 
no matter what you have been calling him here. 

“ Now I am the one who discovered the body 
of the dead man. I was the first one to read 
the letter that lay under his hand. I was — and 
am — the most important witness of all in this 
case. I am one witness, at least, who has no 
personal reasons to make me want to distort 
the facts.” 


242 The Boss of the Big Horns 

I could not resist this dig at Shorty and 
Rawlins. 

“ The prisoner, Jim Raily, has not been able 
to identify himself satisfactorily to the court. 
On the other hand, neither has the state — this 
gentleman here and his witnesses — been able to 
prove beyond a doubt that the prisoner is his 
own brother Tom— ” 

“ What is this, young man? A Fourth of 
July oration, or have you really got something 
to say?” This from the judge, who struck me 
as looking half way between being bored and 
amused. 

“ I sure have!” I exploded, abandoning my 
made-up speech, “ and you better listen to me 
unless you want this man here,” I pointed to 
Attorney Taggart, “ to make a fool of— ” A 
frown clouded the judged brow and I realized 
I had gone too far, but there was no going back 
— “of this court,” I finished lamely. 

“ The youngster’s taken over that job,” 
sneered Taggart. 

“ Order! ” rapped the judge; then to me, 
“ Get on with your testimony. ” 


Boss Saves His Name 


243 


“■I will. No one has been able to establish 
positively the identity of the prisoner. Nor can 
I do it satisfactorily, for I have known him 
only six weeks. There was just one witness who 
could identify him, but he had not been called 
— not even thought of in this trial, and I have 
traveled many a weary mile to get him.” 

“ And did you? ” The judge's tone showed 
awakening interest. 

“ I did. Is it the wish of the court that I 
bring him in? ” 

“ Shucks, yes! ” exclaimed the judge. 

“ Before I do, I want to ask your honor one 
question. A friend will lie for a friend, or 
at least he will see things the friend's way, and 
his testimony will be prejudiced.” Here I was 
on firm ground; this was part of the speech I 
had rehearsed. “ An enemy will lie against his 
foe; his testimony is to be regarded with sus¬ 
picion because it is inspired and poisoned by 
hate. But did your honor ever—” I paused, 
to let it sink in — “ did your honor ever know 
a dog to lie or give false testimony? ” 

The judge opened his mouth as if to answer, 


244 The Boss of the Big Horns 

then closed it again. Evidently he was not go¬ 
ing to commit himself. 

“ Yon have heard read in court the letter that 
was found under the hand of the dead man. In 
that letter you heard mention of a dog, a won¬ 
derful shepherd dog. His name was given. If 
you have forgotten it, I will tell it to you. It 
was Nip. 

“ I trailed this dog over mountain and ravine, 
trapped him and brought him hack. He is the 
one witness who can positively identify the man 
who killed his master.’’ 

“ I object, your honor.” 

“ Go ahead and object,” his honor answered 
cheerfully. “ I like the lad’s way of putting it 
over. Let him go ahead, Taggart; he isn’t go¬ 
ing to run against you in the coming election. 
All right, Vance or Tod, whichever comes first, 
go ahead and spring it — you seem to be run¬ 
ning this show. “ What’s your idea? ” 

“ I’m all through. All I want now is to in¬ 
troduce my witness. If Jim Eaily, the prisoner 
here, is the man who shot the master of this 
dog, Nip will show it. He will recognize him. 


Boss Saves His Name 245 

If the prisoner is innocent he will he willing to 
make the test. Jim Raily, are yon willing! ” 

“ In any way the court suggests.” 

“ Has your honor any suggestions! ” 

44 I’ll hear yours first. You seem to be run¬ 
ning this dog show.” 

6 6 Then let the prisoner call the dog, by name. 
A dog — a real dog — never forgets his friends, 
and if they were friendly Nip will soon show it. 
If not — well, Fll give you a demonstration of 
what he acts like toward people he doesn’t like.” 
“ I object, your hon— ” 

44 Forget it, Taggart. This case has been taken 
outside court for the moment. Let’s forget that 
we’re judges and juries and even prosecuting 
attorneys looking for re-election, and just be 
human beings who like to see something new. 
What’s the harm in it! ” 

Taggart grumbled, but subsided. 

44 Shall I bring in the dog! ” I asked. 

44 Bring him in — on a rope,” added the judge. 
I hastily scrambled through the crowded court¬ 
room and out onto the street. The place where 
I was stopping was just three blocks away and 


246 The Boss of the Bighorns 

I made the distance in record time. Boss was 
waiting for me. With his teeth he had severed 
the new piece of rope with which I had tied him, 
hut he seemed overjoyed to see me. The cham¬ 
bermaid tried to stop me and explain why my 
bed had not been made, but the chewed rope had 
already explained that and I hurried past. 

I held Boss in short leash as I opened the 
courtroom door. There was a rush to get out 
of the way, for at sight of the great crowd the 
hair had bristled on Boss’ neck and he looked 
far from friendly. 

“ Some dog! ” I heard one man exclaim, and 
I could not refrain from a fervent, 64 I’ll say! ” 

The judge was rapping for order. “ Bring 
the dog up here,” he commanded. “ Hold him 
where the jury can see him but where he can’t 
see the prisoner in the box. Give the leash to 
a bailiff. Here, Conley, take hold of the dog — 
and take care he doesn’t take hold of you. 
How, boy, you go over and stand beside the 
prisoner. We’re going to make this a thorough 
test.” 

I handed the leash to the bailiff, wondering if 


Boss Saves His Name 


247 


Boss would take a notion to sample the flavor of 
Conley’s legs. For some strange reason Boss 
only sniffed at the bailiff’s trousers, then curled 
up and lay down at his feet. I went over and 
stood beside Jim, risking a handshake before I 
sat down on the rail. 

“ All right, boy, call your dog,” said the 
judge. 

“If I do the bailiff won’t be able to hold, 
him.” 

“I’ll risk it. How about you, Conley? ” 

“ If the court orders,” uneasily. 

“ Call him,” ordered the judge. 

“ Here, Nip,” I called. 

“ That’s enough! ” exclaimed the judge 
hastily, as the dog tried to break away. “ All 
right, prisoner at the bar, you call him. Do it 
as if you really wanted him to come.” 

“I’ll try. Here, Nip; come, Nip, that’s a 
good dog! Here, Nip, here, Nip, Nip! ” urged 
Big Jim. 

The dog did not stir. It was as if he had 
not heard. 

“ Bring the dog over closer, Conley, so he 


248 


The Boss of the Bighorns 

can see the prisoner.” The bailiff complied with 
the order. “ Now, call him again / 9 ordered the 
judge. 

Jim obeyed. The dog looked toward him, then 
up at the bailiff, who had the leash tight, then 
he rolled himself up and lay down. 

“ Call him, boy.” 

I called, “ Nip, here.” 

In one motion he sprang to his feet and lunged 
forward, the suddenness of his spring upsetting 
the bailiff who let go of the rope to save himself 
from a spill. In a jiffy Boss was in the box 
beside me, paying no attention at all to Jim. 

“ Satisfied, Judge, or do you want one more 
test? ” 

“ I’ll accept another.” 

“ All right.” I stepped out of the prisoner’s 
box, and, catching up the end of the leash and 
wrapping it tightly around my fist, I exclaimed, 
pointing at Jim: 

“ Take him, Nip! ” 

The dog changed into a fury. His teeth bared, 
he sprang at Jim and only the leash kept him 
from reach of a pair of hastily withdrawn legs. 


Boss Saves His Name 


249 


“ Down, Nip, down! Come over and touch him, 
Jim. Nip, let the man touch you — that-a-boy . 7 9 

I straightened up. So did Boss. I turned, 
and with the dog at my heels made my way to 
the back of the courtroom. As I stopped near 
the door I heard the judge say: 

“ Well, Mr. Taggart, have you anything fur¬ 
ther to tell the jury before I give them their 
final instructions. Nothing? Not a word, Mr. 
Taggart, to answer the dog? Well, neither have 
I. Bailiff, escort these jurors to the jury room 
where they can deliberate on their verdict.” 

“Do we have to go out? ” asked a flannel- 
shirted fellow who had been whispering to his 
companions in the jury box all through my test. 

“ Not if you have already reached a decision.” 

“ We have.” 

“ And it is — ” 

“ Not guilty! Every man on this jury owns a 
dog! ” 

It was a week later. We were sitting in front 
of the cabin there on our claim, three of us, Jim 
and I and another. That other was saying: 


250 The Boss of the Bighorns 

“ So that was how it was. Tom and I were 
good enough partners, friends better hi most 
mining partners, until he took sick. Then his 
mind kind of got poisoned. I tried not to pay 
any attention, knowing he was a sick man, but 
it soon got so I either had to leave or get 
into a fight. He imagined all kinds of things — 
that I was going to rob him of his claim, kill 
him, steal his horse — anything. Wouldn’t touch 
a bite of food or a sup of coffee unless I took 
some first. I knew his sickness was the cause 
of his suspicions. 

“ Then he got hurt and I went for the doctor. 
My horse fell and broke his leg, so I had to 
come back. He went wild but finally let me 
start out again on his nag. When I got back 
he was gone, so it didn’t matter that I hadn’t 
been able to bring the doctor with me. He was 
gone for nearly a week — guess that was where 
your friend Shorty fell in with him. I was 
asleep when he came back. Delirious he was, 
clean out of his head. Six-gun in one hand and 
the lamp, half tipped over, in the other. Crazy 
as a tick. 


Boss Saves His Name 251 

“ I took a bullet in the side to get at him, 
but I was pretty hard hit and he had the strength 
of a madman. Finally I had to use my gun, 
but I didn’t think I’d hit him, not bad anyway. 
Last thing I saw of him — I jumped his horse out 
of the corral — he was standing in the doorway, 
the lamp held above his head, the smoke curling 
from his pistol. Yes, sir, and he wasn’t looking 
at me at all, but was standing there calling that 
dog of his, Nip. 

“ I just got out of the hospital at Auro a week 
ago. Saw about your trial and hot-footed it over 
— got there two days too late. So I come on 
up here.” 

“ Mighty glad you did, Barnes,” said Tim 
heartily. 

“ The dog, Nip, where is he? ” asked Barnes. 
“ I’d like awfully well to have him.” 

“ So would Tod,” said Jim, with a quiet 
chuckle. “ He thought he had the dog trained 
for life; bragged about him morning and night 
till I threatened to throw both of them out of 
camp. Early this morning, to show me up, Tod 
takes oft the leash and tells Nip — or Boss, as 


252 The Boss of the Bighorns 

lie calls Mm now — to go play with Ms tail. 
So that’s the last of Boss.” 

“ You think so,” I remarked confidently. 

“ Why’d you rename him? ” Barnes asked. 

“ It’s a good yarn,” answered Jim, “ and 
I doubt if the youngster could do it justice. He 
wrenched his imagination so hard the first time 
he told it that he hasn’t recovered yet. Tod 
claims that after you left my brother died be¬ 
hind a closed door. The dog, unable to get into 
the cabin, and being a bom sheep dog, goes out 
in his sorrow and adopts a herd of sheep, which 
he tends with all the care of a hen with one 
duckling or a grandmother with one curly-head. ’ ’ 

“ But there aren’t any sheep around here,” 
objected Barnes. 

“ Ah, there’s the joker,” snorted Jim. “ You 
hit it right on the head. For our worthy sheep 
dog, not being able to find a ready-made herd to 
his liking, goes out and makes himself one, just 
as his dog ancestor did ages ago to some sheep 
ancestor. Barnes, the story goes — according to 
Tod — that Nip goes out and proceeds to conquer 
a bighorn buck and take over the rule of a big- 


Boss Saves His Name 


253 


horn herd. Can you beat it! ” 

“ Not hardly. I heard a good one while I 
was in the hospital about a cat that mothered a 
fox, but this is in a class by itself.” 

“ The worst of it is,” concluded Jim, “ that 
this artless youth expects us to believe it. Acts 
as if he believes it himself and is insulted be¬ 
cause no one else will.” 

“ If you fellows had seen what I saw you 
wouldn’t be uppish,” I said with some heat. 
“ I saw Boss lick a mountain lion— ” 

“ Didn’t I tell you? ” interrupted Jim, turn¬ 
ing to Barnes. “ Poor boy. I guess it’s the 
altitude; it affects some people that way when 
they get up high where the air is so rare. He 
didn’t really believe it himself at first. It hap¬ 
pened weeks ago and he didn’t tell me about it 
till just the other day.” 

“ I’ve told you a dozen times since then that 
I didn’t have a chance — things happened too 
fast.” 

“ I’ll say so,” heartily. “ But I’m afraid, 
Tod, that you’ve lost your dog to the wild for 
good this time, bighorns or no bighorns — hey! 


254 The Boss of the Bighorns 

What in thunder’s that! ” he fairly yelled, and 
pointed up the ravine. 

We both looked. It was worth a look. Worth 
even Jim’s excited exclamation. 

It was Boss! Yes, Boss returning. But he 
was not alone. Boss had justified his name; 
he was still “ Boss of the Bighorns,” for over 
the edge of the little ravine and down into our 
valley he was driving, single file, the whole big¬ 
horn herd! 












































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AUG 2 1924 






































































